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ALPHA LIBRARY. 
 
 Desperate Remedies 
 
 A Novel 
 
 By 
 Thomas Hardy. 
 
 "Though a coui>e of adveutures which are 
 only connected with each other by having 
 happened to the panic individual islwhat raoat 
 frequently occurs in nature, yet the province of 
 the romance v/ritcv heing artificial, there is 
 more required from him than a mere compli- 
 ance with the simplicity of reality." 
 
 SIR W. SCOTT. 
 
 Chicago and New York: 
 
 Rand, McNally & Company, 
 
 Publishers. 
 
HENRY MORSE STEPHENS 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. I*^^! 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF THIRTY YEARS. 
 
 § I. December and January, iSjS-36. 
 
 In the long and intricately inwrought chain of circumstance 
 which renders worthy of record some experiences of Cytherea 
 Graye, Edward Springrove, and others, the first event directly 
 influencing the issue was a Christmas visit. 
 
 In the above-mentioned year eighteen hundred and thirty- 
 five, Ambrose Graye, a young architect who had just com- 
 menced the practice of his profession in the midland town of 
 Hocbridge, wont to London to spend the Christmas holidays 
 with a friend who lived in Bloomsbury. They had gone up to 
 Cambridge in the same year, and, after graduating together, 
 Huntway, the friend, had entered orders. 
 
 Graye was handsome, frank, and gentle. He had a volatility 
 of thought which, exercised on homeliness, was humor; on 
 nature, picturesqueness; on abstractions, poetry. Being, as a 
 rule, broadcast, it was all three. 
 
 Of the wickedness of the world he was too forgetful. To 
 discover evil in a new friend is to most people only an addi- 
 tional experience; to him it was ever a surprise. 
 
 While in London he-became acquainted with a retired officer 
 in the navy named Bradleigh, who, with his wife and their 
 daughter, lived in a small street not far from Russell Square. 
 Though they were in no more than comfortable circumstances, 
 the captain's wife came of an ancient family whose genealogical 
 
 4216 
 
2 . ■ ' . ht^rii'^V.ki'E REMEDIES. 
 
 tree \v?*il.J5iicflrKlejiXvh:h sOufe pPthe most illustrious and well 
 known in the Icingdoni. 
 
 The young lady, their daughter, seemed to Graye by far the 
 most beautiful and queenly being he had ever beheld. She was 
 about nineteen or twenty, and her name was Cytherea. In 
 truth she was not so very unlike country girls of that type of 
 beauty, except in one respect. She was perfect in her manner 
 and bearing, and they were not. A mere distinguishing pecul- 
 iarity, by catching the eye, is often read as the pervading charac- 
 teristic, and she appeared to him no less than perfection 
 throughout — transcending her rural rivals in very nature. 
 Graye did a thing the blissfulness of which was only eclipsed 
 by its hazardousness. He loved her at first sight. 
 
 His introductions had led him into contact with Cytherea 
 and her parents two or three times on the first week of his 
 arrival in London, and accident and a lover's contrivance 
 brought them together as frequently the week following. The 
 parents liked young Graye, and having few friends (for their 
 equals in blood were their superiors in position), he was re- 
 ceived on very generous terms. His passion for Cytherea grew 
 not only strong, but ineffably strong; she, without positively 
 encouraging him, tacitly assented to his schemes for being near 
 her. Her father and mother seemed to have lost all confidence 
 in nobility of birth, without money to give effect to its presence, 
 and looked upon the budding consequence of the young peo- 
 ple's reciprocal glances with placidity, if not actual favor. 
 
 Graye's whole delicious dream terminated in a sad and unac- 
 countable episode. After passing throrgh three w-eeks of sweet 
 experience, he had arrived at the last stage — a kind of moral 
 Gaza — before plunging into an emotional desert. The second 
 week in January had come round, and it was necessary for the 
 young architect to leave town. 
 
 Throughout his acquaintanceship with the lady of his heart 
 there had been this marked peculiarity in her love: she had 
 delighted in his presence as a sweetheart should, yet from first 
 to last she had repressed all recognition of the true nature of 
 the thread which drew them together, blinding herself to its 
 meaning and only natural tendency, and appearing to dread his 
 announcement of them. The present seemed enough for her 
 without cumulative hope; usually, even if love is in itself an 
 end. it must be regarded as a beginning, to be enjoyed. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. ;] 
 
 In spite of evasions as an obstacle, and in consequence of 
 them as a spur, he would put the matter off no longer. It was 
 evening. He took her into a little conservatory on the landing, 
 and there among the evergreens, by the light of a few tiny 
 lamps, infinitely enhancing the freshness and beauty of the 
 leaves, he made the declaration of a love as fresh and beautiful 
 as they. 
 
 "My love — my darling, be my wife!" 
 
 "We must part now," said she, in a voice of agony, "I will 
 write to you." She loosened her hand and rushed away. 
 
 In a wild fever Graye went home and watched for the next 
 morning. Who shall express his misery and wonder when a 
 note containing these words was put into his hand: 
 
 "Good-by; good-by forever. As recognized lovers some- 
 thing divides us eternally. Forgive me — I should have told 
 you before; but your love was sweet! Never mention me." 
 
 That very day, and, as it seemed, to put an end to a painful 
 condition of things, daughter and parents left London to pay 
 off a promised visit to a relative in a western county. No letter 
 or message of entreaty could wring from her any explanation. 
 She begged him not to follow her, and the most bewildering 
 point was that her father and mother appeared, from the tone 
 of a letter Graye received from them, as vexed and sad as he 
 at this sudden renunciation. One thing was plain: without 
 admitting her reason as valid, they knew what that reason was, 
 and did not intend to reveal it. 
 
 A week from that day Ambrose Graye left his friend Hunt- 
 way's house and saw no more of the love he mourned. From 
 time to time his friend answered any inquiry Graye made by 
 letter respecting her. But very poor food to a lover is intelli- 
 gence of a mistress filtered through a friend. Huntway could 
 tell nothing definitely. He said he believed there had been 
 some prior flirtation between Cytherea and some mysterious 
 officer of the line, two or three years before Graye met her, 
 which had suddenly been terminated by the vanishing of her 
 vague military lover, and the young lady's traveling on the 
 Continent with her parents the whole of the ensuing summer, 
 on account of delicate health. Eventually Huntway said that 
 circumstances had rendered Graye's attacliment more hopeless 
 still. Cytherea's mother had unexpectedly inherited a large 
 fortune and estates in the west of England by the rapid fall of 
 
4 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 S(jme intervening lives. This had caused their removal from 
 the small house by Gower Street, and, as it appeared, a renun- 
 ciation of their old friends in that quarter. 
 
 Young Grave concluded that his Cytherea had forgotten him 
 and his love; but he could not forget her. 
 
 § 2. From 1843 to 1S61. 
 
 Eight years later, feeling lonely and depressed — a man with- 
 out relatives, with many acquaintances but no friends — Am- 
 brose Graye met a young lady of a different kind, fairly 
 endowed with money and good gifts. As to caring very deeply 
 for another woman after the loss of Cytherea. it was an abso- 
 lute impossibility with him. Withal, the beautiful things of 
 the earth become more dear as they elude pursuit; but with 
 some natures utter elusion is the one special event which will 
 make a passing love permanent forever. 
 
 This second young lady and Graye were married. That he 
 did not, first or last, love his wife as he should have done, was 
 known to all; but few knew that his unmanageable heart 
 could never be weaned from useless repining at the loss of his 
 first idol. 
 
 His character to some extent deteriorated, as emotional con- 
 stitutions will under the long sense of disappointment at having 
 missed their imagined destiny. And thus, though naturally of 
 a gentle and pleasant disposition, he grew to be not so tenderly 
 regarded by his acquaintances as it is the lot of some of those 
 persons to be. The winning and sanguine impressibility of 
 his early life developed by degrees a moody nervousness, and 
 when not picturing prospects drawn from baseless hope he was 
 the victim of indescribable depression. The practical issue of 
 such a condition was improvidence, originally almost an un- 
 conscious improvidence, for every debt incurred had been 
 mentally paid off with religious exactness from the treasures 
 of expectation before menti(~)ned. Rut as years revolved, the 
 same course was continued, from the lack of spirit sufficient 
 for shifting out of an old groove when it has been found to lead 
 to disaster. 
 
 In the year eighteen himdrcd and sixty-one his wife died, 
 leaving him a widower with two children. The elder, a son 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 5 
 
 named Owen, now just turned seventeen, was taken from 
 school, and initiated as pupil to the profession of architect in 
 his father's office. The remaining child was a daughter, and 
 Owen's junior by a year. 
 
 Her Christian name was Cytherea, and it is easy to guess 
 why. 
 
 § 3. Odobcr the twelfth, 1863. 
 
 We pass over two years in order to reach the next cardinal 
 event of the story. The scene is still the Grayes' native town of 
 Hocbridge, but as it appeared on a Monday afternoon in the 
 month of October. 
 
 The weather was sunny and dry, but the ancient borough 
 was to be seen wearing one of its least attractive aspects. First 
 on account of the time. It was that stagnant hour of the 
 twenty-four when the practical garishness of day, having 
 escaped from the fresh long shadows and enlivening newness 
 of the morning, has not yet made any perceptible advance 
 towards acquiring those mellow and soothing tones which 
 grace its decline. Next, it was that stage in the progress of 
 the week when business — which, carried on under the gables 
 of an old country place, is not devoid of a romantic sparkle — 
 was well-nigh extinguished. Lastly, the town was intentionally 
 bent upon being attractive by exhibiting to an influx of visitors 
 the local talent for dramatic recitation, and provincial towns 
 trying to be lively are the dullest of dull things. 
 
 Provincial towns are like little children in this respect, that 
 they interest most when they are enacting native peculiarities 
 unconscious of beholders. Discovering themselves to be 
 watched they attempt to be entertaining by putting on an antic, 
 and produce disagreeable caricatures which spoil them. 
 
 The weather-stained clock face in the \o\v church tower 
 standing at the intersection of the three chief streets was ex- 
 pressing half-past two to the Town Hall opposite, where the 
 much talked-of reading from Shakespeare was about to be com- 
 menced. The doors were open, and those persons who had 
 already assembled within the building were noticing the en- 
 trance of the new-comers — silently criticising their dresses — 
 questioning the genuineness of their teeth and hair — estimating 
 their private means. 
 
6 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Among these later ones came an exceptional young maiden 
 who glowed amid the dullness like a single bright-red poppy 
 in a field of brown stubble. She wore an elegant dark jacket, 
 lavender dress, hat with gray strings and trimmings, and gloves 
 of a color to harmonize. She lightly walked up the side pas- 
 sage of the room, cast a slight glance around, and entered the 
 seat pointed out to her. 
 
 The young girl was Cytherea Graye; her age was now about 
 eighteen. During her entry, and at various times while sitting 
 in her seat and hstening to the reader on the platform, her 
 personal appearance formed an interesting subject of study for 
 several neighboring eyes. 
 
 Her face was exceedingly attractive, though artistically less 
 perfect than her figure, which ajiproached unusually near to 
 the standard of faultlessness. I'.ut even this feature of hers 
 yielded the palm to the gracefulness of her movement, which 
 was fascinating and delightful to an extreme degree. 
 
 Indeed, motion was her specialty, whether shown on its 
 most extended scale of bodily progression, or minutely, as in 
 the uplifting of her eyelids, the bending of her fingers, the pout- 
 ing of her lip. The carriage of her head — motion within motion 
 — a glide upon a glide — was as delicate as that of a magnetic 
 needle. And this flexibility and elasticity had never been taught 
 her by rule, nor even been acquired by obscr\'ation, but, ;/////,' 
 ciiltu, had naturally developed itself with her years. In child- 
 hood, a stone or stalk in the way, which had been the inevitable 
 occasion of a fall to her playmates, had usuall\' left her safe 
 and upright on her feet after the narrowest escape by oscilla- 
 tions and whirls for the presen-ation of her balance. At mixed 
 Christmas parties, when she numbered but twelve or thirteen 
 years, and was heartily despised on that account by lads who 
 deemed themselves men, her apt lightness in the dance covered 
 this incompleteness in her womanhood, and compelled the self- 
 same youths in spite of resolutions to seize upon her childish 
 figure as a partner whom they could not afford to contemn. 
 And in later years, when the instincts of her sex had shown her 
 this point as the best and rarest feature in her external self, she 
 was not found wanting in attention to the cultivation of finish 
 in its details. 
 
 Her hair rested gaily upon her shoulders in curls, and was of 
 a shining corn yellow in the high lights, deepening to a definite 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 7 
 
 nut brown as each curl wound round into the shade. She had 
 eyes of a sapphire hue, though rather darker than the gem 
 ordinarily appears; they possessed the affectionate and liquid 
 sparkle of loyalty and good faith as distinguishable from that 
 harder brightness which seems to express faithfulness only to 
 the object confronting them. 
 
 But to attempt to gain a view of her — or indeed of any fas- 
 cinating woman — from a measured category, is as difficult as 
 to appreciate the effect of a landscape by exploring it at night 
 with a lantern — or of a full chord of music by piping the notes 
 in succession. Nevertheless it may readily be believed from the 
 description here ventured, that among the many winning 
 phases of her aspect, these were particularly striking: 
 
 1. During pleasant doubt, when her eyes brightened stealth- 
 ily and smiled (as eyes will smile) as distinctly as her lips, and 
 in the space of a single instant expressed clearly the whole 
 round of degrees of expectancy which lie over the wide expanse . 
 between Yea and Nay. 
 
 2. During the telling of a secret, which was involuntarily 
 accompanied by a sudden minute start, and ecstatic pressure of 
 the listener's arm, side, or neck, as the position and degree of 
 intimacy dictated. 
 
 3. When anxiously regarding one V\^ho possessed her affec- 
 tions. 
 
 She suddenly assumed the last-mentioned bearing during 
 the progress of the present entertainment. Her glance was 
 directed out of the window. 
 
 Why the particulars of a young lady's presence at a very 
 mediocre performance were prevented from dropping into 
 the oblivion which their intrinsic insignificance would natu- 
 rally have involved — why they were remembered and indi- 
 vidualized by herself and others through after years — was simply 
 that she unknowingly stood, as it were, upon the extreme 
 posterior edge of a track in her life, in which the real meaning 
 of Taking Thought had never been known. It was the last 
 hour of experience she ever enjoyed with a mind entirely free 
 from a knowledge of that labyrinth into which she stepped 
 immediately afterward — to continue a perplexed course along 
 its mazes for the greater portion of twenty-nine subsequent 
 months. 
 
 The Town Hall, in which Cytherea sat, was an Elizabethan 
 
8 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 building of brown stone, and the windows were divided into an 
 upper and lower half by a transom of masonry. Through one 
 opening of the upper half could be seen from the interior of 
 the room the housetops and chimneys of the atljacent street, 
 and also the upper part of a neighboring church spire, now 
 in course of completion under the superintendence of Miss 
 Graye's father, the architect to the work. 
 
 That the top of this spire should be visible from her position 
 in the room was a fact which Cytherea's idling eyes had 
 discovered with some interest, and she was now engaged in 
 watching the scene that was being enacted about its airy 
 summit. Round the conical stonework rose a cage of scaf- 
 folding against the white sky; and upon this stood five men — 
 four in clothes as white as the new erection close beneath their 
 hands, the fiftli in the ordinary dark suit of a gentleman. 
 
 The four workingmen in white were three masons and a 
 mason's laborer. The fifth man was the architect, Mr. Graye. 
 lie had been giving directions, as it seemed, and now, retiring 
 as far as the narrow footway allowed, stood perfectly still. 
 
 The picture thus presented to a spectator in the Town Hall 
 was curious and striking. It was an illuminated miniature, 
 framed in by the dark margin of the window, the keen-edged 
 shadiness of which emphasized by contrast the softness of the 
 objects inclosed. 
 
 The height of the spire was about one hundred and twenty 
 feet, and the five men engaged thereon seemed entirely re- 
 mrn'ed from the sphere and experiences of ordinary human 
 beings. They appeared little larger than pigeons, and made 
 their tiny movements with a soft, spirit-like silentness. One idea 
 above all others was conveyed to the mind of a person on the 
 ground by their aspect, namely, concentration of purpose; 
 that they were indifferent to — even unconscious of — the dis- 
 tracted world beneath them, and all that moved upon it. They 
 never looked olT the scafTolding. 
 
 Then one of them turned; it was Mr. Graye. Again Ire 
 stood motionless, with attention to the operations of the others. 
 Tie appeared to be lost in reflection, and had directed his 
 face toward a new stone they were lifting. 
 
 "Why does he stand like that?" the young lady thought at 
 length, up to that moment as listless and careless as one of 
 the ancient Tarcntines, who, on such an afternoon as this, 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 9 
 
 watched from the theater the entr}^ into their harbor of a 
 power that overturned the state. 
 
 She moved herself uneasily. "I wish he would come down," 
 she whispered, still gazing at the sky-backed picture. "It is so 
 dangerous to be absent-minded up there." 
 
 When she had done murmuring the words her father inde- 
 cisively laid hold of one of the scaffold-poles, as if to test its 
 strength, then let it go and stepped back. In stepping, his 
 foot slipped. An instant of doubling forward and sideways, 
 and he reeled off into the air, immediately disappearing down- 
 ward. 
 
 I lis agonized daughter rose to her feet by a convulsive 
 movement. Her lips parted, and she gasped for breath. She 
 could utter no sound. One by one the people about her, 
 unconscious of what had happened, turned their heads, and 
 inquiry and alarm became visible upon their faces at the sight 
 of the poor child. A moment longer, and she fell to the floor. 
 
 The next impression of which Cytherea had any conscious- 
 ness was of being carried from a strange vehicle across the pave- 
 ment to the steps of her own house by her brother and an older 
 man. Recollection of what had passed evolved itself an instant 
 later, and just as they entered the door — through which another 
 and sadder burden had been carried but a few instants before — 
 her eyes caught sight of the southwestern sky, and, without 
 heeding, saw white sunlight shining in the shaft-like lines from 
 a rift in a slaty cloud. Emotions will attach themselves to 
 scenes that are simultaneous — however foreign in essence these 
 scenes may be — as chemical waters will crystallize on twigs and 
 wires. Ever after that time any mental agony brought less 
 vividly to Cytherea's mind the scene from the Town Hall 
 windows than sunlight streaming in shaft-like lines. 
 
 § 4. October the nineteenth. 
 
 When death enters a house, an element of sadness and an 
 element of horror accompany it. Sadness, from the death 
 itself; horror, from the clouds of blackness we designedly 
 labor to introduce. 
 
 The funeral had taken place. Depressed, yet resolved in his 
 demeanor, Owen Graye sat before his father's private escritoire, 
 
Hi ^ DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 cnj^aj^cd in turning out and unfoUling- a heterogeneous collec- 
 tion of papers — forbidding and inharmonious to the eye at all 
 times — most of all to one under the influence of a great grief. 
 Laminae of white i)aixr tied with twine were indiscriminately 
 intermixed with other white papers bounded by black edges — 
 tiiesc with blue foolscap wrapped round with crude red tape. 
 
 The bulk of these letters, bills, and other documents were 
 submitted to a careful examination, l)y which the appended par- 
 ticulars were ascertained: 
 
 First, that their father's income from professional sources 
 had been very small, amounting to not more than half their 
 expenditure; and that his own and his wife's property, upon 
 which he had relied for the balance, had been sunk and lost in 
 imwise loans to unscrupulous men. who had traded upon their 
 father's too open-hearted trustfulness. 
 
 Second, that finding his mistake, he had endeavored to regain 
 his standing by the illusory path of speculation. The most 
 notable instance of this was the following. He had been 
 induced, when at Plymouth in the autumn of the previous year, 
 to venture all his spare capital on the bottomry security of an 
 Italian brig which had put into the harbor in distress. The 
 profit was to be considerable, so was the risk. There turned 
 out to be no security whatever. The circumstances of the case 
 rendered it the most unfortiuiate speculation that a man like 
 himself — ignorant of all such matters — could possibly engage 
 in. The vessel went down, and all Mr. Graye's money with it. 
 
 Third, that these failures had left him burdened with debts 
 he knew not how to meet; so that at the time of his death even 
 the few pounds lying to his account at the bank were his only 
 in name. 
 
 Fourth, that the loss of his wife two years earlier had 
 awakened him to a keen sense of his blindness, and of his duty 
 to his children. He had then resolved to reinstate, by unflag- 
 ging zeal in the pursuit of his profession, and by no speculation, 
 at least a portion of the little fortune he had let go. 
 
 Cytherea was frefjuently at her brother's elbow during these 
 examinations. She often remarked sadly: 
 
 "Poor papa failed to fulfill his good intentions for want of 
 time, didn't he, Owen? And there was an excuse for his past, 
 though he never would claim it. I never forget that original 
 disheartening blow, and how that from it sprang all the ills of 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 11 
 
 his life — everything connected with his gloom, and the lassi- 
 tude in business we used so often to sec about him." 
 
 "I rememl^cr what he said once," returned the brother, 
 "when I sat up late with him. He said, 'Owen, don't love too 
 blindly: blindly you will love if you love at all, but a little care 
 is still possible to a well-disciplined heart. May that heart be 
 yours as it was not mine,' father said. 'Cultivate the art 6i 
 renunciation.' And I am going to, Cytherea." 
 
 "And once mamma said that an excellent woman was papa's 
 ruin, because he did not know the way to give her up when he 
 had lost her. I wonder where she is now, Owen? We were 
 told not to try to find out anything about her. Papa never told 
 us her name, did he?" 
 
 "That was by her own request, I believe. But never mind 
 her;- she was not our mother." 
 
 The love affair which had been Ambrose Graye's disheart- 
 ening blow was precisely of that nature which lads take little 
 account of, but girls ponder in their hearts. 
 
 § 5. J^rom October the ninetccuth to July the ninth. 
 
 Thus Ambrose Graye's good intentions with regard to 
 the reintegration of his property had scarcely taken tangible 
 form when his sudden death put them forever out of his power. 
 
 Heavy bills, showing the extent of his obligations, tumbled 
 in immediately upon the heels of the funeral from quarters 
 previously unheard and unthought of. Thus pressed, a bill 
 was filed in chancery to have the assets, such as they were, 
 administered by the court. 
 
 "What will become of us now?" thought Owen continually. 
 
 There is an unquenchable expectation, which at the gloom- 
 iest time persists in inferring that because we are ourselves, 
 there must be a special future in store for us, though our nature 
 and antecedents to the remotest particular have been common 
 to thousands. 
 
 Thus to Cytherea and Owen Graye the question how their 
 lives would end seemed the deepest of possible enigmas. To 
 others who knew their position equally well with themselves 
 the question was the easiest that could be asked — "Like those 
 of other people similarly circumstanced." 
 
 Then Owen held a consultation with his sister to come to 
 
12 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 sonic decision on their future course, and a month was passed 
 in waiting for answers to letters, and in the cxaniination of 
 schemes more or less futile. Sudden hopes that were rainbows 
 to the sight proved but mists to the touch. In the meantime, 
 unpleasant remarks, disguise them as well-meaning people 
 might, were floating around them every day. The undoubted 
 truth, that they were the children of a dreamer who let slip 
 away every farthing of his money and ran into debt with his 
 neighbors — that the daughter had been brought up to no 
 I)rofession — that the son who had, had made no progress in it, 
 and might come to the dogs — could not from the nature of 
 things be wrapped up in silence in order that it might not 
 hurt their feelings: and, as a matter of fact, it greeted their ears 
 in some form or other wherever they went. Their few acquaint- 
 ances passed them hurriedly. Ancient potwallopers and thriv- 
 ing shopkeepers, in their intervals of leisure, stood at their 
 shop doors — their toes hanging over the edge of the step, and 
 their obese waists hanging over their toes — and in dis- 
 courses with friends on the pavement, formulated the course 
 of the improvident, and reduced the children's prospects to a 
 shadow-like attenuation. The sons of these men (who wore 
 breastpins of a sarcastic kind, and smoked humorous pipes) 
 stared at Cytherea with a stare unmitigated by any of the 
 respect that had formerly softened it. 
 
 Now it is a notict?able fact that we do not much mind what 
 men think of us, or what humiliating secret they discover of our 
 means, parentage, or object, provided that each thinks and acts 
 thereupon in isolation. It is the exchange of ideas about us 
 that we dread most; and the possession by a hundred acquaint- 
 ances, severally insulated, of the knowledge of our skeleton- 
 closet's whereabouts, is not so distressing to the nerves as a chat 
 over it by a party of half a dozen — exclusive depositaries though 
 these may be. 
 
 Perhaps, though Ilocbridge watched and whispered, its ani- 
 mus would have been little more than a trifle to persons in 
 thriving circumstances. Rut, unfortunately, poverty, while it 
 is new, and before the skin has had time to thicken, makes 
 people susceptible inversely to their opportunities for shielding 
 themselves. In Owen was found, in place of his father's 
 impressibility, a larger share of his father's pride, and a square- 
 ness of idea wiiich, if coupled with a little more blindness, would 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 13 
 
 have amounted to positive prejudice. To him Iiumanity, so 
 far as he had thought of it at ah, was rather divided into distinct 
 classes than blended from extreme to extreme. Hence, by a 
 sequence of ideas which might be traced if it were worth while, 
 he either detested or respected opinion, and instinctively sought 
 to escape a cold shade that mere sensitiveness would have 
 endured. He could have submitted to separation, sickness, 
 exile, drudgery, hunger and thirst with stoical indifTerence, but 
 superciliousness was too incisive. 
 
 After living on for nine months in attempts to make an 
 income as his father's successor in the profession — attempts 
 which were utterly fruitless by reason of his inexperience — 
 Graye came to a simple but sweeping resolution. They would 
 privately leave that part of England, drop from the sight of 
 acquaintances, gossips, harsh critics, and bitter creditors of 
 whose misfortune he was not the cause, and escape the position 
 which galled him by the only road their great poverty left open 
 to them — that of his obtaining some employment in a distant 
 place by following his profession as a humble under-clerk. 
 
 He thought over his capabilities with the sensations of a 
 soldier grinding his sword at the opening of a campaign. 
 What with lack of employment, owing to the decrease of his 
 late father's practice, and the absence of direct and uncompro- 
 mising pressure toward monetary results from a pupil's labor 
 (which seems to be always the case when a professional man's 
 pupil is also his son), Owen's progress in the art and science of 
 architecture had been very insignificant indeed. Though 
 anything but an idle young man, he had hardly reached the 
 age at wdiich industrious men who lack an external whip to send 
 them on in the world are induced by their own common-sense 
 to whip on themselves. Hence his knowledge of plans, eleva- 
 tions, sections, and specifications was not greater at the end of 
 two years of probation than might easily have been acquired 
 in six months by a youth of average ability — himself, for 
 instance — amid a bustling London practice. 
 
 But at any rate he could make himself handy to one of the 
 profession — some man in a remote town — and there fulfill his 
 indentures. A tangi1)le inducement lay in this direction of 
 survey. He had a slight conception of such a man, a Mr. Grad- 
 field — who was in practice in Creston, a seaport town and water- 
 ing-place in the west of England. 
 a 
 
li DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 After sonic doubts, Grave ventured to write to tliis gentle- 
 man, asking the necessary (jucstion, shortly alluding to his 
 father's death, and stating that his term of apprenticeshiji had 
 only half-expired, lie would be glad to complete his articles 
 at a very low salary for the whole remaining two years, provided 
 jiayment could begin at once. 
 
 The answer from Mr. Gradfield stated that he was not in a 
 want of a pupil who would ser\'c the remainder of his time on 
 the terms Mr. Grayc mentioned. But he would just add one 
 remark. He chanced to be in want of some young man in his 
 office — for a short time only, probably about two months — to 
 trace drawings, and attend to other subsidiary work of the 
 kind. If Mr. Graye did not object to occupy such an inferior 
 l)osition as these duties would entail, and to accept weekly 
 wages which to one with his expectations would be considere<l 
 merely nominal, the post would give him an oi)portunity for 
 learning a few more details of the profession. 
 
 "It is a beginning, and above all an abiding place, away from 
 the shadow of the cloud which hangs over us here — I will go," 
 said Owen. 
 
 Cytherea's plan for her future, an intensely simple one, 
 owing to the even greater narrowness of her resources, was 
 already marked out. One advantage had accrued to her 
 through her mother's possession of a fair share of personal 
 property, and perhaps only one. She had been carefully edu- 
 cated. Upon this consideration her plan was based. She was 
 to take up her abode in her brother's lodging at Creston. when 
 she would immediately advertise for a situation as governess, 
 having obtained the consent of a lawyer at Reading who was 
 winding up her father's affairs, and who knew the history of her 
 position, to allow himself to be referred to in the matter of her 
 past life and respectability. 
 
 Early one morning they departed from their native town, 
 leaving behind them scarcely a trace of their footsteps. 
 
 Then the town pitied their want of wisdom in taking such a 
 step. "Rashness; they would have done better in Hocbridge." 
 
 r>ut what is wisdom really? A steady handling of any means 
 to bring about any end necessary to happiness. 
 
 Yet whether one's end be the usual end — a wealthy position in 
 life — or no. the name of wisdom is never applied but to the 
 means to that usual end. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE EVENTS OP A FORTNIGHT. 
 § I. The nintJi of July. 
 
 The day of their departure was one of the most glowing 
 that the cHniax of a long series of summer heats could evolve. 
 The wide expanse of landscape quivered up and down like the 
 flame of a taper, as they steamed along through the midst 
 of it. Placid flocks of sheep reclining under trees a little way 
 ofl; appeared of a pale-blue color. Clover fields were livid with 
 the brightness of the sun upon their deep-red flowers. All 
 wagons and carts were moved to the shade by their careful 
 owners; rain-water butts fell to pieces; well-buckets were 
 lowered inside the covers of the well-hole, to preserve them 
 from the fate of the butts, and generally, water seemed scarcer 
 in the country than the beer and cider of the peasantry who 
 toiled or idled there. 
 
 To see persons looking with children's eyes at any ordinary 
 scenery is a proof that they possess the charming faculty of 
 drawing new sensations from an old experience — a healthy 
 sign, rare in these feverish days — the mark of an imperishable 
 brightness of nature. 
 
 I)Oth brother and sister could do this; Cytherea more 
 noticeably. They watched the undulating corn-lands, monot- 
 onous to all their companions; the stony and clayey prospect 
 succeeding those, with its angular and abrupt hills. Boggy 
 moors came next, now withered and dry — the spots upon which 
 pools usually spread their waters showing themselves as circles 
 of smooth, bare soil, overrun by a network of innumerable little 
 fissures. Then arose plantations of firs, abruptly terminating 
 beside meadows cleanly mown, in which high-hipped, rich- 
 colored cows, with backs horizontal and straight as the ridge 
 of a house, stood motionless or lazily fed. Glimpses of the sea 
 
16 DESPERATE REMEDIES, 
 
 ii(»\v interest them, which became more and more frequent till 
 the train finally drew up beside the platform at Creston. 
 
 "The whole town is looking out for us," had been Grave's 
 impression throughout the day. He called upon Mr. Grad- 
 field — the only man who had been directly informed of his 
 coming — and found that Mr. Gradiield had forgotten it. 
 
 However, arrangements were made with this gentleman — a 
 stout, active, gray-bearded burgher of sixty — by which Owen 
 was to commence work in his office the following week. 
 
 The same day Cytherea drew up and sent off the advertise- 
 ment appended : 
 
 '"A young lady is desirous of meeting with an engagement a- 
 governess or companion. She is competent to teach English. 
 I'Vench, and music. .Satisfactory references. 
 
 "Address, C. G., Post Office. Creston." 
 
 It seemed a more material existence than her own that sli 
 saw thus delineated on the paper. "That can't be myself; htiw 
 odd I look," she said, and smiled. 
 
 § 2. /u/v the eleventh. 
 
 On the Monday subsequent to their arrival in Creston, Owen 
 Graye attended at Mr. Gradlicld's office to enter upon his 
 duties, and his sister was left in their lodgings alone for the 
 first time. 
 
 Despite the sad occurrences of the preceding autumn, an 
 unwonted cheerfulness pervaded her spirit throughout the day. 
 Change of scene — and that to untraveled eyes — conjoined with 
 the sensation of freedom from supervision, revived the sparkle 
 of a warm young nature ready enough to take advantage of 
 any adventitious restoratives. Point-blank grief tends rather 
 to seal up happiness for a time than to produce that attrition 
 which results from griefs of anticipation that move onward 
 with the days: these may be said to furrow away the capacity 
 for pleasure. 
 
 Her expectations from the advertisement began to be ex- 
 travagant. A thriving family who had always sadly needed 
 her was already definitely pictured in her fancy, which, in its 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 17 
 
 exuberance, led her on to picturing its individual members, 
 their possible peculiarities, virtues, and vices, and obliterated for 
 a time the recollection that she would be separated from her 
 brother. 
 
 Thus musing, as she waited for his return in the evening, 
 her eyes fell on her left hand. The contemplation of her own 
 left fourth finger by symbol-loving girlhood of tliis age is, it 
 seems, very frequently, if not always, followed by a peculiar 
 train of romantic ideas. Cytherea's thoughts, still playing 
 about her future, became directed into this romantic groove. 
 She leant back in her chair, and taking hold of her fourth 
 finger, which had attracted her attention, she lifted it with the 
 tips of the others, and looked at the smooth and tapering mem- 
 ber for a long time. 
 
 She whispered idly, "I wonder who and what he will be? 
 
 "If he's a gentleman of fashion, he will take my finger so, 
 just with the tips of his own, and with some fluttering of the 
 heart, and the least trembling of his lip, slip the ring so lightly 
 on that I shall hardly know it is there — ^looking delightfully 
 into my eyes all the time. 
 
 "If he's a bold, dashing soldier, I expect he will proudly turn 
 round, take the ring as if it equaled Her Majesty's crown in 
 value, and desperately set it on my finger thus. He will fix 
 his eyes uriflinchingly upon what he is doing, just as if he 
 stood in balile before the enemy (though, in reality, very fond 
 of me, of coitrse), and blush as much as I shall. 
 
 'Tf he's a sailor, he will take my finger and the ring in this 
 way, and deck It out with a housewifely touch and a tenderness 
 of expression about his mouth, as sailors do ; kiss it, perhaps, 
 with a simple air, as if we were children playing an idle game, 
 and not at the vev/ height of observation and envy by a great 
 crowd saying 'Ahl they are happy now!' 
 
 "If he should be r.ither a poor man — noble-minded and affec- 
 tionate, but still poor — " 
 
 Owen's footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs interrupted this 
 fancy-free meditation. Reproaching herself, even angry with 
 herself for allowing her mind to stray upon such subjects in 
 the face of their present desperate condition, she rose to meet 
 him, and make tea. 
 
 Cytherea's interest to know how her brother had been 
 received at Mr. Gradfield's broke forth into words at once. 
 
 2 
 
18 DESPERATE RE MEDIES. 
 
 Almost before they had sat down to table, she began cross- 
 examining him in the regular sisterly way. 
 
 "Well. Owen, how has it been with you to-day? What is the 
 place like — do you think you will like Mr. Gradficldr'" 
 
 "Oh, yes. But he has not been there to-day; I have only 
 had the head clerk with me." 
 
 Young women have a habit, not noticeable in men, of putting 
 on at a moment's notice the drama of whomsoever's life they 
 cluKise. Cytherea's interest was transferred from Mr. Grad- 
 field to his representative. 
 
 "What sort of a man is he?" 
 
 "He seems a very nice fellow indeed: though of course I 
 can hardly tell to a certainty as yet. But 1 think he's a ver>' 
 worthy fellow; there's no nonsense in him, and though he is not 
 a public school man he has read widely, and has a sharp 
 appreciation of what's good in books and art. In fact, hi^ 
 knowledge isn't nearly so exclusive as most professional men's." 
 
 "That's a great deal to say of an architect, for of all pro- 
 fessional men they are, as a rule, the most professional." 
 
 "Yes; perhaps they are. This man is rather of a melancholy 
 turn of mind, I think." 
 
 "Has the managing clerk any family?" she mildly asked, 
 after awhile, pouring out some more tea. 
 
 "Family; no!" 
 
 "Well, dear Owen, how should I know?" 
 
 "Why, of course he isn't married. But there happened to 
 be a conversation aljout women going on in the office, and I 
 heard him say what he should wish his wife to be like." 
 
 "What would he wish his wife to be like?" she said, with great 
 apparent lack of interest. 
 
 "Oh, he says she must be girlish and artless: yet he would be 
 loath to do without a dash of womanly subtlety, 'tis so piquant. 
 Yes, he said, that must be in her; she nnist have womanly 
 cleverness. 'And yet I .should like her to blush if only a cock- 
 sparrow were to look at her hard,' he said, 'which brings me 
 back to the girl again: and so I flit backv.ard and forward. I 
 must have what comes. I suppose,' he said, 'and whatever she 
 may be, thank God .she's no worse. However, if he might 
 give a final hint to Providence.' he said, 'a child among pleas- 
 ures, and a woman among pains, was the rough outline of his 
 requirement.' " 
 
desperate: remedies. 19 
 
 "Did he say that? What a musing creature he must be." 
 "He did, indeed." 
 
 § 3. From the tiuclfih to tJic Jificcnih of July. 
 
 As is well known, ideas are so elastic in a human brain, that 
 they have no constant measure which may be called their actual 
 bulk. Any important idea may be compressed to a molecule 
 by an unwonted crowding of others; and any small idea will 
 expand to whatever length and breadth of vacuum the mind 
 may be able to make over to it. Cytherea's world was tolerably 
 vacant at this time, and the head clerk became factitiously 
 pervasive. The very next evening this subject was again re- 
 newed. 
 
 "His name is Springrove," said Owen, in reply to her. "He 
 is a man of very humble origin, it seems, who has made him- 
 self so far. I think he is the son of a farmer, or something of 
 the kind." 
 
 "Well, he's none the worse for that, I suppose." 
 
 "None the worse. As we come down the hill, we shall be 
 continually meeting people going up." But Owen had felt that 
 Springrove was a little the worse, nevertheless. 
 
 "Of course he's rather old by this time." 
 
 "Oh, no. He's about six-and-twenty — not more." 
 
 "Ah, I see .... What is he like, Owen?" 
 
 "I can't exactly tell you his appearance; 'tis always such a 
 difficult thing to do." 
 
 "A man you would describe as short? Most men are those 
 we should describe as short, I fancy." 
 
 "I should call him, I think, of the middle height; but as I only 
 see him sitting in the ofifice, of course I am not certain about his 
 form and figure." 
 
 "I wish you were, then." 
 
 "Perhaps you do. But I am not, you see." 
 
 "Of course not; you are always so provoking. Owen, I 
 saw a man in the street to-day whom I fancied was he — and 
 yet, I don't see how it could be, either. He had light-brown 
 hair, a snub nose, very round face, and a peculiar habit of reduc- 
 ing his eyes to straight lines when he looked narrowly at 
 anything." 
 
 "Oh, no. That was not he, Cytherea." 
 
20 DESPERATE RE .iEDIES. 
 
 "Xot a bit like him, iti all probability." 
 
 'Not a bit. He has dark hair, almost a Grecian nose, rcini 
 lar teeth, and an intellectual face, as nearly as 1 can recall h< 
 mind." 
 
 "Ah, there now, Owen, you have describcil him. P.ut 1 
 suppose he's not generally called pleasing, or — ' 
 
 "Handsome?" 
 
 "I scarcely meant that. But since you have said it, is he 
 handsome?" 
 
 "Rather." 
 
 "His A'///* cuicmbU is striking?" 
 
 "Yes — Oh, no, no — I forgot: it is not. He is rather untidy 
 in his waistcoat, and neckties, and hair." 
 
 "How vexing! .... it must be to himself, poor thing." 
 
 "He's a thorough book-worm — despises the pap-and-daisy 
 school of verse — knows Shakespeare to the very dregs of the 
 foot-notes. Indeed he's a poet himself in a small way." 
 
 "How delicious!" she said; "I have never known a poet." 
 
 "And you don't know him," said Owen, dryly. 
 
 She reddened. "Of course I don't. I know that." 
 
 "Have you received any answer to your advertisement?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 "Ah — no!" she said, and the forgotten disappointment which 
 had shown itself in her face at different times during the day 
 became visible again. 
 
 Another day passed away. On Thursday, without inquiry, 
 she learnt more of the head clerk. He and Graye had become 
 vcr}- friendly, and he had been tempted to show her brother 
 a copy of some poems of his — some serious and some sad, some 
 humorous — which had appeared in the poet's corner of a 
 magazine from time to time. Owen showed them now to 
 Cytherea, who instantly began to read them carefully and to 
 think them very beautiful. 
 
 "Yes — Springrove's no fool," said Owen didactically. 
 
 "Xo fool! — I should think he isn't indeed," said Cytherea, 
 looking from the paper in quite an excitement: to write such 
 verses as these!" 
 
 "What logic are you chopping. Cytherea? WVll, I d(»n't 
 mean on account of the verses, because I haven't road them: 
 but f<^r what he said when the fellows were talking about falling 
 in love." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 21 
 
 ''Which yon will tell me?" 
 
 ''He says that your true lover breathlessly finds himself 
 engaged to a sweetheart, like a man who has caught some- 
 thing in the dark. He doesn't know whether it is a bat or a 
 bird ; takes it to the light when he is cool to learn what it is. He 
 looks to see if she is the right age, but right age or wrong age, 
 he must consider her a prize. Some time later he ponders 
 whether she is the right kind of prize for him. Right kind or 
 wrong kind — he has called her his, and must abide by it. After 
 a time he asks himself, 'Has she the temper, hair, and eyes I 
 meant to have, and was firmly resolved not to do without?' 
 He finds it all wrong, and then comes the tussle — " 
 
 "Do they marry and live happily?" 
 
 "Who? Oh, the supposed pair. I think he said — well, I 
 really forget what he said." 
 
 "That is stupid of you!" said the young lady with dismay. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But he's a satirist — I don't think I care about him now." 
 
 "There you are just wrong. He is not. He is, as I believe, 
 an impulsive fellow who has been made to pay the penalty of 
 his rashness in some love affair." 
 
 Thus ended the dialogue of Thursday, but Cytherea read the 
 verses again in private. On Friday her brother remarked that 
 Springrove had informed him he was going to leave Mr. Grad- 
 field's in a fortnight to push bis fortunes in London. 
 
 An indescribable feeling of sadness shot through Cytherea's 
 heart. Why should she be sad at such an announcement as 
 that, she thought, concerning a man she had never seen, when 
 her spirits were elastic enough to rebound after hard blows from 
 deep and real troubles as if she had scarcely known them? 
 Though she could not answer this question she knew one thing, 
 she was saddened by Owen's news. 
 
 Ideal conception, necessitated by ignorance of the person so 
 imagined, often results in an incipient love, which otherwise 
 would never have existed. 
 
 § 4. July the tzvcnty-first. 
 
 A very homely and rustic excursion by steamboat to Lew- 
 borne Bay forms the framework of the next accident in the 
 chain. The trip was announced through the streets on Thurs- 
 
22 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 day niornin;,^ by the weak-voiced town crier to be at 6 o'cloc]< 
 the same evening. The weather was lovely, and the opportunity 
 being the first of the kind offered to thcin, Owen and Cytlierea 
 went with the rest. 
 
 They had reached the bay, and had lingered together for 
 nearly an hour on the shore and up the hill which rose beside 
 the cove, when Graye recollected that a mile or two inland from 
 this spot was an interesting medieval ruin. lie was already 
 familiar with its characteristics through the medium of an 
 archaeological work, and now finding himself so close to the 
 reality, felt inclined to verify some tlicory he had formed re- 
 specting it. Concluding that there would i)e just sufficient time 
 for him to go there and return before the boat had left the cove, 
 he parted from Cytherea on the hill, struck downward, and 
 then up a heathery valley. 
 
 She remained where he had left her until the time of his 
 expected return, scanning the details of the prospect around. 
 Placidly spread out before her on the south was the open clian- 
 nel, rciiecting a blue intenser by many shades than that of the 
 sky overhead, and dotted on the foreground by half a dozen 
 small craft of contrasting rig. their sails graduating in hue from 
 extreme whiteness to reddish brown, the varying actual colors 
 varied again in a double degree by the rays of the declining sun. 
 
 Presently the first bell from the boat was heard, warning the 
 passengers to embark. This was followed by a lively air from 
 the harps and violins on board, their tones, as they arose, be- 
 coming intermingled with, thougli not marred by. the brush 
 of the waves when their crests rolled over — at the point where 
 the check of the shore shallows was first felt — and tlien thinned 
 away up the slope of pebbles and sand. 
 
 She turned her face landward, and strained her eyes to dis- 
 cern, if possible, some signs of Owen's return. Nothing was 
 visible save the strikingly brilliant, still landscape. The wide 
 concave which lay at the back of the cliff in this direction was 
 blading with the western light, adding an orange tint to the 
 vivid purple of the heather, now at the very climax of bloom, 
 and free from the slightest touch of the invidious brown that 
 so soon creeps into its shades. The light so intensified the color 
 that they scorned to stand above the surface of th.c earth and 
 float in mid-air like an exhalation of red. In the minor valleys, 
 between the liiiloeks and ridc;es wln'ch diviTsifii'd the contour 
 
DESPERATE, REMEDIES. 23 
 
 of the basin, but did not disturb its general sweep, she marked 
 brakes of tall, heavy-stemmed ferns, five or six feet high, in a 
 brilliant light-green dress — a broad ribbon of them, with the 
 path in their midst winding like a stream along the little ravine 
 that reached to the foot of'thc hill and delivered up the path to 
 its grassy area. Among the ferns grew holly bushes deeper 
 in tint than any shade about them, while the whole surface 
 of the scene was dimpled with small conical pits, and here and 
 there were round ponds, now dry, and half overgrown with 
 rushes. 
 
 The last bell of the steamer rang. Cytherea had forgotten 
 herself, and what she was looking for. In a fever of distress 
 lest Owen should be left behind, she gathered up in her hand 
 the corners of her handkerchief, containing specimens of the 
 shells, seaweed, and fossils with which the locality abounded, 
 descended to the beach, and mingled with the knots of visitors 
 there congregated from other interesting points around, from 
 the inn, the cottages, and hired conveyances that had returned 
 from short drives inland. They all went aboard by the primitive 
 plan of a narrow plank on two wheels — the women being as- 
 sisted by a rope. Cytherea lingered till the very last, reluctant 
 to follow, and looking alternately at the boat and the valley 
 behind. Her delay provoked a remark from Captain Jacobs, 
 a thickset man of hybrid stains, resulting from the mixed effects 
 of fire and water, peculiar to sailors where engines are the pro- 
 pelling power. 
 
 "Now, then, missie, if you please. I am sorry to tell 'ee our 
 time's up. Who are you looking for, miss?" 
 
 "I\Iy brother — he has walked a short distance inland; he 
 must be here directly. Could you wait for him — just a minute?" 
 
 "Really, I'm afraid not, m'm." Cj'therea looked at the stovit, 
 round-faced man, and at the vessel, with a light in her eyes so 
 expressive of her own opinion being the same on reilection, 
 and with such resignation, too, that, from an instinctive feeling 
 of pride at being able to prove himself more humane than he 
 was thought to be — works of supererogation are the only sacri- 
 fices that entice in this way — and that at a very small cost, he 
 delayed the boat till some elderly unmarried girls among the 
 passengers began to murmur. 
 
 "There, never mind," said Cytherea decisively. "Go on with- 
 out me — I shall wait for him." 
 
24 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Well, 'tis a vcn- awkward tliinp: to leave you here all alone," 
 saitl the captain. "I certainly advise you not to wait." 
 
 "lie's {.i^one across to the railway station, for certain," said 
 another passentjer. 
 
 "No — here he is!" Cytherea said, regarding, as she spoke, 
 the half-hiililen figure of a man who was seen advancing at a 
 headlong pace down the ravine which lay between the licath 
 and the shore. 
 
 "He can't get here in less than five minutes." the passenger 
 said. "People should know what they are about, and keep time. 
 Really, if — " 
 
 "You see. sir," said the captain, in an apologetic undertone, 
 "since 'tis her brother, and she's all alone, 'tis only nater to wait 
 a minute now he's in sight. Suppose now you were a young 
 woman, as might be, and had a brother, like this one, and you 
 stood of an evening upon this here wild, lonely shore, like her, 
 why. you'd want us to wait, too, wouldn't you, sir? I think you 
 would." 
 
 The person so hastily approaching had been lost to view 
 during this remark by reason of a hollow in the ground, and 
 the projecting cliff immediately at hand covered the path in its 
 rise. His footsteps were now heard striking sharply upon the 
 stony road at a distance of about twenty or thirty yards, but 
 still behin<l the escarpment. To save time. Cytherea prepared 
 to ascend the plank. 
 
 "Let me give you my hand, miss," said Captain Jacobs. 
 
 "No — please don't touch me," said she. ascending cautiously 
 by sliding one foot forward two or three inches, bringing up 
 tile other behind it, and so on alternately — her lips compressed 
 ])y concentration on the feat, her eyes glued to the plank, her 
 hand to the rope, and her immediate thought to the fact of the 
 distressing narrowness of her footing. Footsteps now shook 
 the lower end of the board, and in another instant were up to 
 her heels with a bound. 
 
 "Oh, Owen, I atn so glad you are come!" she said, without 
 turning. "Don't shake the plank or touch me. whatever you 
 
 do There. I am up. \\'here have you been so 
 
 long?" she continued, in a lower tone, turning round to him as 
 •he reached the top. 
 
 Raising her eves from her feet, which, standing on the firm 
 deck, demanded her attention no longer, she acquired perc'-'- 
 
DESPBRATli] REMEDIES. 25 
 
 tions of the new-comer in the following order — unknown trous- 
 ers; unknown waistcoat; unknown lace. The man was not 
 her brother, but a total stranger. 
 
 Off went the plank; the paddles started, stopped in confu- 
 sion, then revolved decisively, and the boat passed out into deep 
 water. 
 
 One or two persons had said, "How d'ye do, Mr. Spring- 
 rove?" and looked at Cytherea, to see how she bore her dis- 
 appointment. Her ears had but just caught the name of the 
 head clerk, when she saw him advancing directly to address 
 her. 
 
 "Miss Grave, I believe?" he said, lifting his hat. 
 
 "Yes," said Cytherea, coloring, and trying not to look guilty 
 of a surreptitious knowledge of him. 
 
 "1 am Mr. Springrove. I passed Humdon Castle about half 
 an hour ago, and soon afterward met your brother going that 
 way. He had been deceived in the distance, and was about to 
 turn without seeing the ruin, on account of a lameness that had 
 come on in his leg or foot. I proposed that he should go 
 on, since he had got so near; and afterward, instead of walk- 
 ing back to the boat, get across to Galworth station — a shorter 
 walk for him — where he could catch the late train, and go 
 directly home. I could let you know what he had done, and 
 allay any uneasiness." 
 
 "Is the lameness serious, do you know?" 
 
 "Oh, no; simply from over-walking himself. Still, it was 
 just as well to ride home." 
 
 Relieved from her apprehension on Owen's score, she was 
 able slightly to examine the appearance of her informant — 
 Edward Springrove, who now removed his hat for awhile, to 
 cool himself. He was rather above her brother's height. Al- 
 though the upper part of his face and head was handsomely 
 formed and bounded by lines of sufificiently masculine regu- 
 larity, his brows were somewhat too softly arched, and finely 
 penciled for one of his sex; without prejudice, however, to 
 the belief which the sum total of his features inspired — that 
 though they did not prove that the man who thought inside 
 them would do much for the world, men who had done most 
 of all had had no better ones. Across his forehead, otherwise 
 perfectly smooth, ran one thin line, the healthy freshness of 
 
2G DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 his rcniainini; lealures expressing that it had come there prema- 
 turely. 
 
 Though some years short of the age at which the clear spirit 
 bids good-by to the la^t infirmity of noble mind, and takes t< 
 bf»usc-lumting and consols, he had reached the period in a 
 .'•;:ng man's life when episodic pasts, with a hopeful birth an! 
 .'1 fli>appointing death, had begun to accumulate, and to bear a 
 fruit of generalities; his glance sometimes seeming to state, 
 'I have already thought out the issue of such conditions a^ 
 these we are experiencing." At other times he wore an 
 ihstracted look: "I seem to have lived through this moment 
 ticfore." 
 
 He was carelessly dressed in dark g^y, wearing a narrow 
 bit of black ribbon as a necktie, the bow of which was disar- 
 angcfl, and stood obliquely — a deposit of white dust having 
 lodged in the creases. 
 
 "I am sorry for your disappointment," he continued, keep- 
 ing at her side. As he spoke the words, he glanced into her 
 face — then fixed his eyes firmly, though but for a moment, on 
 hers, which at the same instant w^ere regarding him. Their eyes 
 having met, became, as it were, mutually locked together, and 
 the single instant only which g(xj(\ breeding allows as the 
 length of such a glance became trebled: a clear penetrating ray 
 of intelligence had ^hot from each into each, giving birth to 
 one of those unaccountable sensations which carry home to the 
 heart before the hand has been touched or the merest compli- 
 ment passed, by something stronger than mathematical proof, 
 the conviction, "A tie has begun to unite us." 
 
 lioth faces also unconsciously stated that their owners had 
 been much in each other's thoughts of late. Owen had talked 
 to the head clerk of his sister as freely as to CNlherea of the head 
 clerk. 
 
 A conversation began, which was none the less interesting 
 to the part'' 'tir-.n j i.^r-.M-.. it consisted only of the most 
 trivial and -. Then the band of harps and 
 
 violins stn; \ , and the deck was cleared for 
 
 dancing; the sun dipping beneath the horizon during the pro- 
 ceeding, and the moon showing herself at their stern. The sea 
 was so calm that the soft hiss produced by the bursting of the 
 innumerable bubbles of foam behind the paddles could be dis- 
 tinctively heard. The passengers who did not dance, including 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 27 
 
 Cytherea and Springrove, lapsed into silence, leaning against 
 the paddle-boxes, or standing aloof — noticing the trembling 
 of the deck to the steps of the dance — watching the waves from 
 the paddles as they slid thinly and easily under each other's 
 bosom. 
 
 Night had quite closed in by the time they reached Creston 
 harbor, sparkling with its white, red, and green lights in oppo- 
 sition to the shimmering path of the moon's reflection on the 
 other side, which reached away to the horizon till the flecked 
 ripples reduced themselves to sparkles as fine to the eye as gold 
 dust. 
 
 "I will walk to the station and find out the exact time the 
 train arrives," said Springrove, rather eagerly, when they had 
 landed. 
 
 She thanked him much. 
 
 "Perhaps we might walk together," he suggested, hesitating- 
 ly. She looked as if she did not quite know, and he settled the 
 question by showing the way. 
 
 They found, on arriving there, that on the first day of that 
 month the particular train selected for Gray's return had ceased 
 to stop at Galworth station. 
 
 "I am very sorry I misled him," said Springrove. 
 
 "Oh, I am not alarmed at all," replied Cytherea. 
 
 "Well, it's sure to be all right — he will sleep there, and 
 come by the first in the morning. But what will you do, 
 alone?" 
 
 "I am quite easy on that point; the landlady is vers' friend- 
 ly. I must go indoors now. Good-night, Mr. Springrove." 
 
 "Let me go round to your door with you?" he pleaded. 
 
 "No, thank you; we live close by." 
 
 He looked at her as a waiter looks at the change he brings 
 back. But she was inexorable. 
 
 "Don't — forget me," he murmured. She did not answer. 
 
 "Let me see you sometimes," he said. 
 
 "Perhaps you never will again — I am going away," she re- 
 plied, in lingering tones; and turning into Cross street, ran 
 indoors and upstairs. 
 
 The sudden withdrawal of what was superfluous when first 
 given is often felt as an essential loss. It was felt now with regard 
 to the maiden. jNIore, too, after a first meeting, so pleasant 
 and so enkindling, she had seemed to imply that they would 
 
2S DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 never come together aj^ain. The younj^ man softly follow i.' 
 I'cr, stood opposite the house, and watched her come into tl 
 i:ppcr room with the light. Presently his gaze was cut shci : 
 hy her approaching the window and pulling down the blind — 
 Edward dwelling upon her vanishing figure with a hopeless 
 sense of loss akin to that which Adam is said by logicians to 
 fiave felt when he first saw the sun set, and thought, in his in- 
 experience, that it would return no more. 
 
 He waited until her shadow had twice crossed the window, 
 when, finding the charming outline was not to be expccto ' 
 again, he left the street, crossed the harbor-bridge, and enters 
 his own solitary chamber on the other side, vaguely thinkiuj^ 
 as he went (for unnamed reasons), 
 
 "One hope is too like despair 
 For prudence to smother." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF EIGHT DAYS. 
 § I. From the twenty-second to the twenty-seventh of July. 
 
 But things are not what they seem. A responsive love for 
 Edward Springrove had made its appearance in Cytherea's 
 bosom with all the fascinating attributes of a first experience — 
 not succeeding to or displacing other emotions, as in older 
 hearts, but taking up entirely new ground; as when gazing 
 just after sunset at the pale-blue sky we see a star come into 
 existence where nothing was before. 
 
 His parting words, "Don't forget me," she repeated to her- 
 self a hundred times, and though she thought their import was 
 probably commonplace, she could not help toying with them — 
 looking at them from all points, and investing them with mean- 
 ings of love and faithfulness — ostensibly entertaining such 
 meanings only as fables wherewith to pass the time, yet in her 
 heart admitting, for detached instants, a possibility of their 
 deeper truth. And thus, for hours after he had left her, her 
 reason flirted with her fancy as a kitten will sport with a dove, 
 oleasantly and smoothly through easy attitudes, but disclosing 
 its cruel and unyielding nature at crises. 
 
 To turn now to the more material media through which this 
 story moves, it so happened that the very next morning brought 
 round a circumstance which, slight in itself, took up a relevant 
 and important position between the past and the future of the 
 persons herein concerned. 
 
 At breakfast-time, just as Cytherea had again seen the post- 
 man pass without bringing her an answer to the advertisement, 
 as she had fully expected he would, Owen entered the room. 
 
 "Well," he said, kissing her, "you have not been alarmed, of 
 course? Springrove told you what I had done, and you found 
 there was no train?" 
 
 "Yes, it was all clear. But what was the lameness owing to?" 
 
 "I don't know — nothing. It has quite gone off now. . , . 
 Cytherea, I hope you like Springrove. Springrove's a nice fel- 
 low, you know." 
 
30 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Vcs, I think he is, except that — " 
 
 "It happened just to tlie puri)Ose that I should meet him 
 there, di(hi"t it? And when 1 reached the station and learned 
 that I could not get on by train my foot seemed better. I 
 started off to walk home, and went about five miles along a 
 path besitlc the railway. It then struck me that I might not be 
 fit for anything to-day if I walked and aggravated the botlier- 
 ing foot, so 1 looked for a place to sleep at. There was no 
 available village or inn, and I eventually got the keeper of a 
 gate-house, where a lane crossed the line, to take me in." 
 
 They proceeded with their breakfast. Owen yawned. 
 
 "You didn't get mucii sleep at the gate-house last night," 
 I'm afraid, Owen," said his sister. 
 
 "To tell the truth, I didn't. I w-as in such very close and 
 narrow quarters. Those gate-houses are such small places, 
 and the man had only his own bed to offer me. Ah, by the by, 
 Cythie, I have such an extraordinary tiling to tell you in con- 
 nection with this man! — by Jove, I had nearly forgotten it. 
 But I'll go straight on. As I was saying, he had only his own 
 bed to offer me, but I could not afford to be fastidious, and as 
 he had a hearty manner, though a very queer one, I agreed to 
 accept it, and he made a rougli pallet for himself on the floor 
 close beside me. Well. 1 could not sleep for my life, and I 
 wished I had not stayed there, though I was so tired. For one 
 thing, there were the luggage trains rattling by at my elbow 
 the early part of the night. But worse than this, he talked con- 
 tinually in his sleep, and occasionally struck out widi his limbs 
 at something or another, knocking against the post of the bed- 
 stead and making it tremble. My condition was altogether so 
 unsatisfactory' that at last I awoke him, and asked him what 
 he had been dreaming about for the previous hour, for I could 
 get no sleep at all. lie begged my panlon for disturbing me, 
 but a name I had casually let fall that evening had led him to 
 think of another stranger he had once had visit him, who had 
 also accidentally mentioned the same name, and some very 
 strange incidents connected with that meeting. The affair had 
 occurred years and years ago; and what I had said had made 
 him think and dream about it as if it were but yesterday. What 
 was the word? I said. 'Cytherea,' he said. What was the story. 
 I asked then. He then told me that when he was a young man 
 ill London he borrowed a few pounds to add to a few he had 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 31 
 
 saved up, and opened a little inn at Hammersmith. One even- 
 ing, after the inn had been open about a couple of months, every 
 idler in the neighborhood ran off to Westminster. The Houses 
 of Parliament were on fire. 
 
 "Not a soul remained in his parlor besides himself, and he 
 began picking up the pipes and glasses his customers had has- 
 tily relinquished. At length a young lady about seventeen or 
 eighteen came in. She asked if a woman was there waiting for 
 herself — Miss Jane Taylor. He said no; asked the young 
 woman if she would wait, and showed her into the small inner 
 room. There was a glass pane in the partition dividing this 
 room from the bar to enable the landlord to see if his visitors, 
 who sat there, wanted anything. A curious awkwardness and 
 melancholy aJ)OUt the behavior of the girl who called caused 
 my informant to look frequently at her through the partition. 
 She seemed weary of her life, and sat with her face buried in 
 her hands, evidently quite out of her element in such a house. 
 Then a woman much older came in and greeted Miss Taylor 
 by name. The man distinctly heard the following words 
 pass between them: 
 
 "'Why have you not brought him?' 
 
 " 'He is ill ; he is not likely to live through the night' 
 
 "At this announcement from the elderly woman, the younger 
 one fell to the fioor in a swoon, apparently overcome by the 
 news. The landlord ran in and lifted her up. Well, do what 
 they would, they could not for a long time bring her back to 
 consciousness, and began to be much alarmed. 'Who is she?' 
 the innkeeper said to the other woman. 'I know her,' the other 
 said, with deep meaning in her tone. The elderly and young 
 woman seemed allied, and yet strangers. 
 
 "She now showed signs of life, and it struck him (he was 
 plainly of an inquisitive turn) that in her half-bewildered state 
 (he might get some information from her. He stooped over 
 her, put his mouth to her ear, and said sharply, 'What's your 
 name?' 'Catch a woman napping if you can, even when she's 
 asleep or half-dead,' says the gatekeeper. When he asked her 
 her name, she said immediately: 
 
 " 'Cytherea' — and stopped suddenly." 
 
 "My own name!" said Cytherea. 
 
 "Yes — your name. Well, the gateman thought at the time 
 it might be equally with Jane a name she had invented for the 
 
32 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 occasion, that tlicy niijii^ht not trace her; but I think it was 
 truth unconsciously uttered, for she added directly afterward, 
 'Oh, what have I said!' and was quite overcome again — this time 
 with fright. Her vexation that the woman now doubted the 
 genuineness of her other name was very much greater than 
 that the innkeeper did, and it is evident that to blind the won 
 was her main object. He also learned, from words this ot' 
 woman casually let drop, that meetings of the same kind li 
 been held before, and that the falseness of the soi-disaut W. 
 Jane Taylor's name had never been suspected by this cc': 
 panion or confederate till then. 
 
 "She recovered, rested there for an hour, and first scndii 
 off her companion peremptorily (which was another odd thin 
 she left the house, offering the landlord all the money she 1 
 to say nothing about the circumstance. He has never si 
 her since, according to his own account. I said to him ap, 
 and again, 'Did you find out any more particulars aftenvar 
 'Not a syllable,' he said. Oh, he should never hear any mor< 
 that — too many years had passed since it happened. 'At -i 
 rate, you found out her surname ?' I said. 'Well, well, that's \ 
 secret,' he went on. 'Perhaps I should never have been in ». 
 part of the world if it hadn't been for that. I failed as a p; 
 lican, you know.' I imagine the situation of a gateman \. 
 given him and his debts paid off as a bribe to silence, but I cn;i ; 
 say. 'Ah, yes,' he said, with a long breath, 'I have never hen- 1 
 that name mentioned since that time till to-night, and tli 
 there instantly rose to my eyes the vision of that young \\ 
 lying in a fainting fit.' He then stopped talking and fell asl< 
 Telling the story must have relieved him as it did the Anci. 
 Mariner, for he did not move a muscle or make another so' 
 for the remainder of the night. Now. isn't that an odd stoi\ 
 
 "It is, indeed," Cytherea murmured. "Very, very strange. ' 
 
 "Why should she have said your most uncommon nam 
 continued Owen. "The man was evidently truthful, for tb 
 was not motive sufficient for his invention of such a tale. a;i I 
 he could not have done it. either." 
 
 Cvtherca looked long at her brother. "Don't you rccogni • 
 anvthing else in connection with the storv?" she said. 
 
 ''What?" he asked. 
 
 "Do you remember what poor papa once let drop — that 
 Cytherea was the name of his first sweetheart in Bloomsbury, 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 33 
 
 who SO mysteriously renounced him? A sort of intuition tells 
 me this was the same woman." 
 
 "Oh, no — not likely," said her brother skeptically. 
 
 "How not likely, Owen? There's not another woman of the 
 name in England. In what year used papa to say the event 
 took place?" 
 
 "Eighteen hundred and thirty-five." 
 
 "And when were the Houses of Parliament burned? — stop, I 
 can tell you." She searched their litde stock of books for a list 
 of dates, and found one in an old school history. 
 
 "The Houses of Parliament were burned down in the evening 
 of the sixteenth of October, eighteen hundred and thirty-four." 
 
 "Nearly a year and a quarter before she met father," remarked 
 Owen. 
 
 They were silent. "If papa had been alive, what a wonder- 
 fully absorbing interest this story would have had for him," 
 said Cytherca, by and by. "And how strangely knowledge 
 comes to us. We might have searched for a clue to her secret 
 half the world over, and never found one. If we had really 
 had any motive for trying to discover more of the sad history 
 than papa told us, we should have gone to Bloomsbury; but 
 not caring to do so, we go two hundred miles in the opposite 
 direction, and there find information waiting to be told us. 
 What could have been the secret, Owen?" 
 
 "Heaven knows. But our having heard a little more of her 
 in this way (if she is the same woman) is a mere coincidence 
 after all — a family story to tell our friends, if we ever have any. 
 But v*-e shall never know any more of the episode novv — trust 
 our fates to that." 
 
 Cytherea was silently thinking. 
 
 "There was no answer this morning to your advertisement, 
 Cytherea?" he continued. 
 
 "None." 
 
 "I could see that by your looks when I came in." 
 
 "Fancy not getdng a single one," she said sadly. "Surely 
 there must be people somewhere who want governesses." 
 
 "Yes; bat those who want them, and can afford to have them, 
 get them mostly by friends' recommendations; while those 
 who w-inl them, and can't afford to have them, do without 
 them." 
 
 "What shall I do?" 
 
34 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Never mind it. Go on living with me. Don't let the diffi- 
 culty trouble your mind so; you think about it all day. I can 
 keep you, Cythie, in a plain way of living. Twenty-five shillings 
 a week do not amount to much, truly: but then many mechan- 
 ics have no more, and we live quite as sparingly as journeymen 
 
 mechanics 'Tis a meager, narrow life we are 
 
 drifting into," he added gloomily, "but it is a degree more tol- 
 erable than the worrying sensation of all the world being 
 ashamed of you, which we experienced at Ilocbridge." 
 
 "I couldn't go back there again," she said. 
 
 "Nor I. Oh, I don't regret our course for a moment. We did 
 (|uitc right in dropj)ing out of the world." The sneering tones 
 of the remark were almost too labored to be real. "Besides," 
 he continued, "something better for me is sure to turn up soon. 
 I wish my engagement here was a permanent one instead of 
 for only two months. It may, certainly, be for a longer time, but 
 all is uncertain." 
 
 "I wish I could get something to do, and I must, too," she 
 said firmly. "Suppose, as is ver}- probable, you are not wanted 
 after the beginning of October, the time Mr. Gradfield men- 
 tioned, what should we do if I were dependent on you only- 
 tliroughout the winter?" 
 
 They pondered on numerous schemes by which a young lady 
 might be supposed to earn a decent livelihood, more or less 
 convenient and feasible in imagination, but relinquished them 
 all until advertising had been once more tried, this time taking 
 lower ground. Cytherea was vexed at her temerity in having 
 represented to the world that so inexperienced a being as her- 
 self was a qualified governess; and had a fancy that this pre- 
 sumption of hers might be one reason why no ladies applied. 
 
 Tlie new and humbler attempt appeared in the following 
 form : 
 
 "Nurser)' Governess or Useful Companion — A young person 
 wishes to hear of a situation in either of the above capacities. 
 Salary very moderate. She is a good needlewoman. Address 
 C., 3 Cross street, Creston." 
 
 In the evening they went to post the letter, and then walked 
 up and down the esplanade for awhile. Soon they met Spring- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 35 
 
 rove, said a few words to him, and passed on. Owen noticed 
 that his sister's face had become crimson. Rather oddly, they 
 met SpringTove again in a few minutes. 
 
 This time the three wah^ed a httle way together, Edward 
 ostensibly talking to Owen, though with a single thought lo 
 the reception of his words by the maiden at the farther side, 
 upon whom his gaze was mostly resting, and who was atten- 
 tively listening — looking fixedly upon the pavement the while. 
 It has been said that men love with their eyes; women with 
 their ears. 
 
 As Owen and himself were little more than acquaintances 
 as yet, and as Springrove was wanting in the assurance of many 
 men of his age, it now became necessary to wish his friends 
 good-evening, or to find a reason for continuing near Cythcrca 
 by saying some nice new thing. He thought of a new thing; 
 he proposed to pull across the bay. This was assented to. 
 They went to the pier; stepped into one of the gaily painted 
 boats moored alongside, and sheered ofif. Cytherea sat in the 
 stern steering. 
 
 They rowed that evening; tlie next came, and with it the 
 necessity of rowing again. Then the next, and the next, 
 Cytherea always sitting in the stern with the tiller-ropes in her 
 hands. The cun-es of her figure welded with those of the fragile 
 boat in perfect continuation, as she girlishly yielded herself to 
 its heaving and sinking, seeming to form with it an organic 
 whole. 
 
 Then Owen was inclined to test his skill in paddling a canoe. 
 Edward did not like canoes, and the issue was, that, having 
 seen Owen on board, Springrove proposed to pull ofif after him 
 with a pair of sculls; but not considering himself sufficiently 
 accomplished to do finished rowing before an esplanade full of 
 promenaders when there was a little swell on, and with the rud- 
 der unshipped in addition, he begged that Cytherea might come 
 with him and steer as before. She stepped in, and they floated 
 along in the wake of her brother. Thus passed the fifth 
 evening. 
 
 But the consonant pair were thrown into still closer com- 
 panionship, and much more exclusive connection. 
 
 § 2. J^i^y the twenty-nijith. 
 
 It was a sad time for Cytherea — the last day of Springrove's 
 
36 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 management at Gradficld's, and the last evening before his 
 ivtuni from Creslon to his father's house, previous to his de- 
 parture {or London. 
 
 Grave had been requested by the architect to sur\'ey a plot 
 of land nearly twenty miles off, which, with the journey to and 
 fro, would occupy him the whole day, and prevent his return- 
 ing till late in the evening. Cytherea made a companion of her 
 landlady to the extent of sharing meals and sitting with her 
 during the morning of her brother's absence. Mid-day found 
 her mi:^erable imder this arrangement. All tlie afternoon she 
 sat alone, looking out of the window for she scarcely knew 
 whom, and hoj)ing she scarcely knew what. Half-past five 
 o'clock came — the end of Springrove's official day. Two min- 
 utes later Springrove walked by. 
 
 She endured her solitude for another half-hour, and then 
 could endure no longer. She had hoped — under the title of 
 feared — that Edward would have fouud some reason or other 
 for calling, but it seemed that he had not. Hastily dressing 
 herself, she went out, when the farce of an accidental meeting 
 was repeated. Edward came upon her in the street at the first 
 turning. 
 
 "Pie looked at her as a lover can; 
 She looked at him as one who wakes — 
 The past was a sleep, and her life began." 
 
 "Shall we have a boat?" he said impulsively. 
 
 How exquisite a sweetheart is at first! Perhaps, indeed, the 
 only bliss in the course of love which can truly be called Eden- 
 like is tiiat which prevails inmiediately after doubt has ended 
 and before reflection has set in — at the dawn of the emotion, 
 when it is not recognized by name, and before the consideration 
 of wiiat this love is has given birth to the consideration of 
 what difTiculties it tends to create; when, on the man's part, 
 the mistress appears to the mind's eye in picturesque, hazy, 
 and fresh morning lights and soft morning shadows; when, as 
 yet, she is known only as the wearer of one dress, which shares 
 her own personality; as the stander in one special position, the 
 giver of one bright, particular glance, and the speaker of one 
 tender sentence; when, on her part, she is timidly careful over 
 what she says and docs, lest she should be misconstrued or 
 underrated to the breadth of a shadow of a hair. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES, 37 
 
 ''Shall wc have a boat?" he said again, more softly, seeing 
 that at his first question she had not answered, but looked un- 
 certainly at the ground, then almost, but not quite, in his face, 
 blushed a series of minute blushes, left ofY in the midst of them, 
 and showed the usual signs of perplexity in a matter of the 
 emotions. 
 
 Owen had always been with her before, but there was now 
 a force of habit in the proceeding, and with Arcadian innocence 
 she assumed that a row on the water was, under any circum- 
 stances, a natural thing. Without another word being spoken 
 on either side they went down the steps. He carefully handed 
 her in, took his seat, slid noiselessly off the sand, and away 
 from the shore. 
 
 They thus sat facing each other in the graceful yellow cockle- 
 shell, and his eyes frequently found a resting-place in the depths 
 of hers. The boat was so small that at each return of the sculls 
 when his hand came forward to begin the pull, they approached 
 so near to her bosom that her vivid imagination began to thrill 
 her with a fancy that he was going to clasp his arms around 
 her. The sensation grew^ so strong that she could not run the 
 risk of again meeting his eyes at those critical moments, and 
 turned aside to inspect the distant horizon ; then she grew weary 
 of looking sideways, and was driven to return to her natural 
 position again. At this instant he again leaned forward to begin, 
 and met her glance by an ardent fixed gaze. An involuntary 
 impulse of girlish embarrassment caused her to give a vehement 
 pull at the tillcr-rope, which brought the boat's head round till 
 they stood directly for shore. 
 
 His eyes, which had dwelt upon her form during the whole 
 time of her look askance, now left her; he perceived the direc- 
 tion in which they were going. 
 
 "Why, you have completely turned the boat. Miss Graye," 
 he said, looking over his shoulder. "Look at our track in the 
 water — a great semicircle, preceded by a series of zigzags as far 
 as we can see." 
 
 She looked attentively. "Is it my fault or yours?" she in- 
 quired. "Mine, I suppose?" 
 
 "I can't help saying that it is yours." 
 
 She dropped the rope decisively, feeling the slightest twinge 
 of vexation at the answer. 
 
 "Why do you let go?" 
 
3S DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "I do it SO badly." 
 
 "0!i, no; you turned about for shore in a masterly way. Do 
 you wish to return?" 
 
 "Ves, if you please." 
 
 "Of course, then, I will at once." 
 
 "I fear what the people will think of us — g^oing in such absurd 
 directions, and all through my wretched steering." 
 
 "Never mind what the people think." A pause. "You surely 
 arc not so weak as to mind what the people think on such a 
 matter as that?" 
 
 That answer might almost be called too firm and hard to 
 be given by him to her, but never mind. For almost the first 
 time in her life she felt the delicious sensation, although on such 
 an insignificant subject, of being compelled into an opinion by 
 a man she loved. Owen, though less yielding physically, and 
 more practical, would not have had the intellectual independ- 
 ence to answer a woman thus. She replied quietly and honestly 
 — as honestly as when she had stated the contrary fact a minute 
 earlier: 
 
 "I don't mind." 
 
 "I'll unship the tiller that you may have notliing to do going 
 back but to hold your parasol." he continued, and arose to 
 perform the operation, necessarily leaning closely against her, 
 to guard against the risk of capsizing the boat as he reached 
 his liands astern. His warm breath touched and crept round 
 her face like a caress; but he was apparently only concerned 
 with his task. She looked guilty of something when he seated 
 himself. He read in her face what that something was — she 
 had experienced a pleasure from his touch. But he flung a 
 practical glance over his shoulder, seized the oars, and they sped 
 in a straight line toward the shore. 
 
 Cytherea saw that he read in her face what had passed in her 
 heart, and that, reading it, he contiinied as decided as before 
 She was inwardly distressed. .*^he had not meant him to trans- 
 late her words about returning home so literally at the first; 
 she had not intended him to learn her secret; but more than 
 all. she was not able to endure the perception of his learning it 
 and continuing unmoved. 
 
 There was nothing but misery to come now. They would 
 step ashore; he would say good-night, go to London to-mor- 
 row, and the miserable she would lose him forever. She did 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 39 
 
 not quite suppose, what was the fact, that a parallel thought 
 was simultaneously passing through his mind. 
 
 They were now within ten yards, now within five; he was 
 only now waiting for a "smooth" to bring the boat in. Sweet, 
 sweet Love must not be slain thus, was the fair maid's reason- 
 ing. She was quite equal to the occasion — ladies are — and de- 
 livered the god: 
 
 "Do you want very much to land. Air. Springrove?" she 
 said, letting her young violet eyes pine at him a very, very 
 little. 
 
 "I? Not at all," said he, looking an astonishment at her 
 inquiry, which a slight t\vinkle of his eye half-belied. "But you 
 do?" 
 
 "I think that now we have come out, and it is such a pleasant 
 evening," she said, gently and sweetly, "I should like a little 
 longer row, if you don't mind. I'll try to steer better than be- 
 fore, if it makes it easier for you. I'll try very hard." 
 
 It was the turn of his face to tell a tale now. He looked, 
 "We understand each other — ah, we do, darling!" turned the 
 boat, and pulled back into the bay once more. 
 
 "Now steer me wherever you will," he said in a low voice. 
 "Never mind the directness of the course — wherever you will." 
 
 "Shall it be Laystead shore?" she said, pointing in that direc- 
 tion. 
 
 "Laystead shore," he said, grasping the sculls. She took the 
 strings daintily, and they wended away to the left. 
 
 For a long time nothing was audible in the boat but the 
 regular dip of the oars and their movement in the row-locks. 
 Springrove at length spoke: 
 
 "I must go away to-morrow," he said tentatively. 
 
 "Yes," she replied faintly. 
 
 "To endeavor to advance a little in my profession in London." 
 
 "Yes," she said again, with the same preoccupied softness. 
 
 "But I sha'n't advance." 
 
 "Why not? Architecture is a bewitching profession. They 
 say that an architect's work is another man's play." 
 
 "Yes. But worldly advantage from an art doesn't depend 
 upon mastering it. I used to think it did; but it doesn't. Those 
 who get rich need have no skill at all as artists." 
 
 "What need they have?" 
 
 "A certain kind of energy which men with any fondness for 
 
40 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 art possess very scUlom ituleed — an earnestness in makings ac- 
 (luaintanccs, and a love for using them. They g'ive tlicir whole 
 attcntitni to the art of dining out, after mastering a few rudi- 
 mentary facts to serve up in conversation. Now after saying 
 that, do I seem a man Hkely to make a name?" 
 
 "Vou seem a man Hkely to make a mistake." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "To give too much room to the latent feeling, which is rather 
 common in these days among the unappreciated, that because 
 some markedly successful men are fools, all markedly unsuc- 
 cessful men are geniuses." 
 
 "Pretty subtle for a young lady," he said slowly. "From 
 tliat remark I should fancy you had bought experience." 
 
 She passed over the idea. "Do try to succeed," she said, with 
 wistful thoughtfulness, leaving her eyes on him. 
 
 Springrovc flushed a little at the earnestness of her words, 
 and mused: "Then, like Cato the Censor, I shall do what 1 
 despise, to be in the fashion," he said at last. . . . "Well, 
 when I found all this out that I was speaking of, whatever do 
 you think I did? From having already loved verse passion- 
 ately, I went on to read it continually; then I went rhyminf 
 myself. If anything on earth ruins a man for useful occupa 
 tion, and for content with reasonable success in a profession or 
 trade, it is the habit or writing verses on emotional subjects, 
 which had much better be left to die from want of nourish- 
 ment." 
 
 "Do you write poems now?" she said. 
 
 "None. Poetical days are getting past with me, according 
 to the usual rule. Writing rhymes is a stage people of my 
 sort pass through, as they pass through the stage of shaving 
 for a beard, or thinking they arc ill-used, or saying there's 
 nothing in the world worth living for." 
 
 "Then the dift'erence between a common man and a recog- 
 nized i)oet is. that one has been deluded and cured of his de- 
 lusion, and the other continues deluded all his days." 
 
 "Well, there's just enough truth in what you say to make the 
 remark unbearaJile. However, it doesn't matter to me, nov/ 
 that I 'meditate the thankless muse' no longer, but ..." 
 He paused as if endeavoring to think what better thing he did. 
 
 Cytherea's mind ran on to the succeeding lines of the poem, 
 and their startling harmony w ith the present situation suggested 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 41 
 
 the fancy that he was "sporting", with her, and brought an 
 awkward contemplativeness to her face. 
 
 Springrove guessed her th^oughts, and in answer to them 
 simply said, "Yes." Then they were silent again. 
 
 "If I had known an Amaryllis was coming here, I should 
 not have made arrangements for leaving," he resumed. 
 
 Such levity, superimposed on the notion of "sport," was in- 
 tolerable to Cytherea; for a woman seems never to see any 
 but the serious side of her attachment, thoug-h the most de- 
 voted lover has all the time a vague and dim perception that he 
 is losing his old dignity and frittering away his time. 
 
 "But will you not try again to get on with your profession? 
 Try once more; do try once more," she murmured. "I am 
 going to try again. I have advertised for something to do." 
 
 "Of course I will," he said with an eager gesture and 
 smile. "But we must remember that the fame of Christopher 
 Wren himself depended upon the accident of a fire in Pudding- 
 Lane. My success seems to come very slowly. I often think 
 that before I am ready to live it will be time for me to die. How- 
 ever, I am trying — not for fame now, but for an easy life of 
 reasonable comfort." 
 
 It is a melancholy truth for the middle classes, that in pro- 
 portion as they develop, by the study of poetry and art, their 
 capacity for conjugal love of the highest and purpst kind, they 
 limit the possibility of their being able to exercise it — the very 
 act putting out of their power the attainment of means sufficient 
 for marriage. The man who works up a good income has had 
 no time to learn love to its exquisite extreme ; the man who has 
 learned that has had no time to get rich. 
 
 "And if you should fail — utterly fail to get that reasonable 
 wealth," she said earnestly, "don't be perturbed. The truly 
 great stand upon no middle ledge; they arc either famous or 
 unknown." 
 
 "Unknown," he said, "if their ideas have been allowed to flow 
 with a sympathetic breadth. Famous only if they have been 
 convergent and exclusive." 
 
 "Yes; and I am afraid, from that, that my remark was but 
 discouragement, wearing the dress of comfort. Perhaps I was 
 not quite right in — " 
 
 "It depends entirely upon what is m.cant by being truly great. 
 But the long and the short of the matter is that men must stick to 
 
42 DESPERATE RE..IEDIES. 
 
 a tiling- if they want to succeed in it — not givinjj^ way to over- 
 niucli admiration for the flowers they see growing in other 
 people's borders; which 1 am afraid has been my case." He 
 looked into the far distance and paused. 
 
 Adherence to a course with persistence sufficient to insure 
 success is possible to widely appreciative minds only when there 
 is also found in them a power — commonplace in its nature, but 
 rare in such combination — the power of assuming to conviction 
 that in the outlying paths which appear so much more brilliant 
 than their own, there arc bitternesses equally great — unper- 
 ceived simply on account of their remoteness. 
 
 They were opposite Laystcad shore. The cliffs here were 
 formed of strata completely contrasting with those of the farther 
 side of the bay. while in and beneath the water hard bowlders 
 had taken the place of sand and shingle, between which, how- 
 ever, the sea glided noiselessly, without breaking the crest of a 
 single wave, so strikingly calm was the air. The breeze had 
 entirely died away, leaving the water of that rare glassy smooth- 
 ness which is unmarked even by the small dimples of the least 
 aerial movement. Purples and blues of divers shades were re- 
 flected from this mirror according as each undulation sloped 
 cast or west. They could see the rocky bottom some twenty 
 feet beneath them, luxuriant with weeds of various growths, 
 and dotted with pulpy creatures reflecting a silvers* and spangled 
 radiance upward to their eyes. 
 
 At length she looked at him to learn the effect of her words 
 of encouragement. He had let the oars drift alongside, and the 
 boat had come to a standstill. Everything on earth seemed 
 taking a contemplative rest, as if waiting to hear the avowal of 
 something from his lips. At that instant he appeared to break 
 a resolution hitherto zealously kept. Leaving his seat amid- 
 ships he came and gently edged himself down beside her upon 
 the narrow seat at the stern. 
 
 She breathed quicker and warmer: he took her right hand 
 in his own right; it was not withdrawn. He put his left hand 
 behind her neck till it came round upon her left cheek; it was 
 not tlirust away. Lightly pressing her. he brought her face and 
 mnuth toward his own; when, at this the very brink, some 
 imaccountable thought or spell within him siuldcnly made him 
 halt — even now, and. as it seemed, as much to himself as to her, 
 he timidly whispered, "May I?" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 43 
 
 Her endeavor was to say No so denuded of its flesh and 
 sinews that its nature would hardly be recognized, or in other 
 words a No from so near the positive frontier as to be affected 
 with the Yes accent. It was thus a whispered No, drawn out 
 to nearly a quarter of a minute's length, the O making itself 
 audible as a sound like the spring coo of a pigeon on unusually 
 friendly terms with his mate. Though conscious of her success 
 in producing the kind of word she had wished to produce, she 
 at the same time trembled in suspense as to how it would be 
 taken. But the time available for doubt was so short as to admit 
 of scarcely more than half a dozen vibrations: pressing closer 
 he kissed her. Then he kissed her again with a longer kiss. 
 
 It was the supremely happy moment of their experience. 
 The bloom and the purple light were strong on the lineaments 
 of both. Their hearts could hardly believe the evidence of their 
 lips. 
 
 'T love you, and you love me, Cytherea!" he whispered. 
 
 She could not deny it; and all seemed well. The gentle 
 sounds around them from the hills, the plains, the distant town, 
 the adjacent shore, the water heaving at their side, the kiss, 
 and the long kiss, were all "many a voice of one delight," and in 
 unison with each other. 
 
 But his mind flew back to the same unpleasant thought 
 which had been connected with the resolution he had broken 
 a minute or two earlier. "I could be a slave at my profession 
 to win you, Cytherea; I would work at the meanest honest 
 trade to be near you — much less claim you as mine ; I would — 
 anything. But I have not told you all ; it is not this; you don't 
 know what there is yet to tell. Could you forgive as you can 
 love ?" She was alarmed to see that he had become pale with the 
 question. 
 
 "No — do not speak," he said. "I have kept something from 
 you, which has now become the cause of a great uneasiness. 
 I had no right — to love you; but I did it. Something for- 
 bade — " 
 
 "What?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Something forbade me — till the kiss — yes, till the kiss came; 
 and now nothing shall forbid it! We'll hope in spite of all. 
 . . . . I must, however, speak of this love of ours to your 
 brother. Dearest, you had better go indoors while I meet him 
 at the station, and explain everything." 
 
44 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Cytlierca's short-lived bliss was dead and gone. Oh, if she 
 had known of this secjuel would she have allowed him to break 
 down the barrier of mere acquaintanceship — never, never! 
 
 "Will you not explain to me?" she faintly urged. Doubt — 
 indcfmite, carking doubt had taken possession of her. 
 
 "Not now. You alarm yourself unnecessarily," he said ten- 
 derly. "My only reason for keeping silence is that with my 
 present knowledge I may tell an untrue stor>'. It may be there 
 is nothing to tell. I am to blame for haste in alluding to any 
 such thing. I<"orgive me, sweet — forgive me." Her heart was 
 ready to burst, and she could not answer him. He returned to 
 his place, and took to the oars. 
 
 They again made for the distant esplanade, now, with its 
 line of houses, lying like a dark-gray band against the light 
 western sky. The sun had set, and a star or two began to peep 
 out. They drew nearer their destination. Edward as he pulled 
 tracing listlessly with his eyes the red stripes upon her scarf, 
 which grew to appear as black ones in the increasing dusk of 
 evening. She surveyed the long line of lamps on the sea-wall 
 of the town, now looking small and yellow, and seeming to 
 send long taper roots of fire quivering down deep into the sea. 
 By and by they reached the landing-steps. He took her hand 
 as before, and found it as cold as the water about them. It 
 was not relinquished until he reached her door. His assurance 
 had not removed the constraint of her manner: he saw that she 
 blamed him mutely and with her eyes, like a captive sparrow. 
 Left alone, he went and seated himself on a chair on the es- 
 planade. 
 
 Neither could she go indoors to her solitar>' room, feeling as 
 she did in such a state of desperate heaviness. \\'hen Spring- 
 rove was out of sight she turned back, and arrived at the corner 
 just in time to see him sit down. Then she glided pensively 
 along the pavement behind him, forgetting herself to marble, 
 like Melancholy itself, and mused in his company unseen. She 
 heard, without heeding, the notes of pianos and singing voices 
 from the fashionable houses at her back, from the open win- 
 dows of which the lamp-light streamed to meet that of the 
 orange-hued fidl moon, newly risen over the bay in front. Then 
 F.dward began to pace up and down, and C>'therca, fearing 
 that he would notice her. doubled behind and across the road, 
 dinging him a last wistful look as she pas.sed out of sight. No 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 45 
 
 promise from him to write; no request that she herself would 
 do so — nothing but an indefinite expression of hope in the face 
 of some fear unknown to her. Alas, alas! 
 
 When Owen returned he found she was not in the small sit- 
 ting-room, and creeping upstairs into her bedroom with a light 
 he discovered her there lying asleep upon the coverlet of the 
 bed, still with her hat and jacket on. She had flung herself 
 down on entering, and succumbed to the unwonted oppressive- 
 ness that ever attends full-blown love. The wet traces of tears 
 were yet visible upon her long drooping lashes. 
 
 "Love is a sowre delight, and sugred griefe, 
 A living death, and ever-dying life." 
 
 "Cytherea," he whispered, kissing her. She awoke with a 
 start, and ventured an exclamation before recovering her judg- 
 ment. "He's gone!" she said. 
 
 "He has told me all," said Grave, soothingly. "He is going 
 ofif early to-morrow morning. 'Twas a shame of him to win 
 you away from me, and cruel of you to keep the growth of this 
 attachment a secret." 
 
 "We couldn't help it," she said, and then jumping up — 
 ''Owen, has he told you all?" 
 
 "All of your love from beginning to end," he said simply. 
 
 Edward then had not told more — as he ought to have done ; 
 yet she could not convict him. But she would struggle against 
 his fetters. She tingled to the very soles of her feet at the very 
 possibility that he might be deluding her. 
 
 "Owen," she continued, with dignity, "what is he to me? 
 Nothing. I must dismiss such weakness as this — believe me, 
 I will. Something far more pressing must drive it away. I 
 have been looking my position steadily in the face, and I must 
 get a living somehow. I mean to advertise once more." 
 
 "Advertising is no use." 
 
 "This one will be." He looked surprised at the sanguine tone 
 of her answer, till she took a piece of paper from the table and 
 showed it him. "See what I am going to do," she said sadly, 
 almost bitterly. This was her third effort: 
 
 "Lady's maid. Inexperienced. Age eighteen. G., 3 Cross 
 street, Creston." 
 
: j DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Owfii — Owen the respectable — looked blank astonishnieiit. 
 He repeated in a nameless, varying tone the two words: 
 
 "Lady's maid!" 
 
 "Yes; lady's maid. 'Tis an honest profession," said Cytherea 
 bravely. 
 
 "lUityou, Cytherea?" 
 
 "Yes, 1 — who am I ?" 
 
 "You will never be a lady's maid — never. I am cjuite sure."' 
 
 "I shall try to be, at any rate." 
 
 "Such a disgrace — " 
 
 "Nonsense! I maintain that it is no disgrace!" she said 
 rather .warmly. "You know very well — " 
 
 "Well, since you will, you must," he interrupted. "Why do 
 you put 'inexperienced?' " 
 
 "Because I am." 
 
 "Never mind that — scratch out 'inexperienced.' We are 
 poor, Cytherea, aren't we?" he murmured, after a silence, "and 
 it seems that the two months will close my engagement here." 
 
 "We can put up with being poor," she said, "if they only give 
 
 us work to do Yes, we desire as a blessing what 
 
 was given as a curse, and even that is denied. However, be 
 cheerful. Owen, and never mind." 
 
 In justice to desponding men, it is as well to remember that 
 the brighter endurance of women at these epochs — invaluable, 
 sweet, angelic, as it is — owes more of its origin to a narrower 
 vision that shuts out many of the leaden-eyed despairs in the van 
 than to a hopefulness intense enough to quell them. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY. 
 
 § I. August the fourth. Till four o'clock. 
 
 The early part of the next week brought an answer to Cy- 
 therea's last note of hope in the way of advertisement — not from 
 a distance of hundreds of miles, London, Scotland, Ireland, the 
 Continent, as Cytherca seemed to think it must, to be in keeping 
 with the means adopted for obtaining it, but from a place in the 
 neighborhood of that in which she was living, a country man- 
 sion about fifteen miles off. The reply ran thus : 
 
 "Knap water House, August 3d, 1864. 
 "]\Iiss Aldclyfte is in want of a young person as lady's maid. 
 The duties of the place are light. Miss Aldclyffe will be in 
 Creston on Thursday, when (should G. still not have heard of 
 a situation) she would like to see her at the Belvedere Hotel, 
 esplanade, at four o'clock. No answer need be returned to this 
 note." 
 
 A little earlier than the time named Cytherea, clothed in a 
 modest bonnet and a black silk jacket, turned down to the 
 hotel. Expectation, the fresh air from the water, the bright, 
 far-extending outlook, raised the most delicate of pink colors 
 to her cheeks, and restored to her tread a portion of that elas- 
 ticity which her past troubles, and thoughts of Edward, had 
 well-nigh taken away. 
 
 She entered the vestibule, and went to the window of the 
 bar. 
 
 "Is Miss Aldclyffe here?" she said to a nicely dressed bar- 
 maul in the foreground, who was talking to a landlady covered 
 with chains, knobs, clamps of gold in the background. 
 4 
 
48 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "\t), slic isni," saiil the barniaid, not very civilly. Cytherea 
 looked a shade too pretty for a plain dresser. 
 
 "?\tiss Aldclyffe is e.xpccted here," the landlady said to a 
 third person, out of sip;ht, in the tone of one who had known 
 for several days the fact newly discovered from Cytherea. "Get 
 ready her room — be quick." LVom the alacrity with which the 
 order was given and taken, it seemed to Cytherea that Miss 
 Aldclyffe must be a woman of considerable importance. 
 
 "You arc to have an interview with Miss Aldclyffe here?" the 
 landladv inquired. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The young person had better wait." continued the landlady, 
 didactically. \\'ilh a money-taker's intuition, she had rightly 
 divined that Cytherea would bring no profit to the house. 
 
 Cytherea was shown into a nondescript chamber, on the 
 shady side of the building, which appeared to be either bed- 
 room or dayroom, as occasion necessitated, and was one of a 
 suite at the end of the first floor corridor. The prevailing color 
 of the walls, curtain, carpet, and coverings of furniture was 
 more or less blue, to wliich the cold light coming from the 
 northeasterly sky. and falling on a wide roof of new slates — the 
 only objects the small window commanded — imparted a more 
 striking paleness. Rut underneath the door connnunicating 
 with the next room of the suite gleamed an infinitcsimally small, 
 yet very powerful, fraction of contrast — a very thin line of rudily 
 light, showing that the sun beamed strongly into tliis room ad- 
 joining. The line of radiance was the only cheering thing visible 
 in the place. 
 
 People give way to very infantine thoughts and actions when 
 they wait; the battlefield of life is tcmjK^rarily fenced off by a 
 hard and fast line — the interview. Cytherea fixed her eyes idly 
 upon the streak, and began picturing a wonderful paradise on 
 the other sitic as the source of such a beam — reminding her of 
 the well-known good deed in a naughty world. 
 
 While she watched the particles of dust floating before the 
 brilliant chink she heard a carriage and horses stop opposite 
 the front of the house. Afterward came the rustic of a lady's 
 dress down the corridor, and into the room communicating with 
 the one Cytherea occupied. 
 
 The golden line vanished in parts like the phosphorescent 
 streak caused bv the striking of a match; there was the fall of 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 49 
 
 a light footstep on the floor just behind it; then a pause. Then 
 the foot tapped impatiently, and "There's no one here!" was 
 spoken imperiously by a lady's tongue. 
 
 "No, madam; in the next room. I am going to fetch her," 
 said the attendant. 
 
 "That will do, or you needn't go in: I will call her." 
 Cytherea had risen, and she advanced to the middle door 
 with the chink under it as the servant retired. She had just laid 
 her hand on the knob, v/hen it slipped round within her fingers 
 and the door was pulled open from the other side. 
 
 § 2. Four o'clock. 
 
 The direct blaze of the afternoon sun, partly refracted through 
 the crimson curtains of the window, and heightened by reflec- 
 tion from the crimson-flock paper which covered the walls, and 
 a carpet on the floor of the same tint, shone with a burning glow 
 round the form of a lady standing close to Cytherea's front with 
 the door in her hand. The stranger appeared to the maiden's 
 eyes — fresh from the blue gloom, and assisted by an imagina- 
 tion fresh from nature — like a tall black figure standing in the 
 midst of fire. It was the figure of a finely built w^oman, of 
 spare though not angular proportions. 
 
 Cytherea involuntarily shaded her eyes with her hand, re- 
 treated a step or two, and then she could for the first time see 
 Miss Aldclyffe's face in addition to her outline, lit up by the 
 secondary and softer light that was reflected ffom the varnished 
 ^panels of the door. She was not a very young woman, but 
 could boast of much beauty of the majestic autumnal phase. 
 
 "Oh," said the lady; "come this way." Cytherea followed her 
 to the embrasure of the window. 
 
 Both the women showed ofT themselves to advantage as they 
 walked forward in the orange light; and each showed, too, in 
 her face that she had been struck with her companion's appear- 
 ance. The warm tint added to Cytherea's face a voluptuous- 
 ness which youth and a simple life had not yet allowed to ex- 
 press itself there ordinarily; while in the elder lady's face it 
 reduced the customary expression, which might have been 
 called sternness, if not harshness, to grandeur, and warmed her 
 decaying complexion with much of the youthful richness it 
 plainly had once possessed. 
 
 4 
 
50 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Slic appeared now no more than five-and-thirty, though she 
 might easily have been ten or a dozen years older. She had 
 clear, steady eyes, a Roman nose in its purest form, and also 
 the rounil prominent chin with which the Caesars are repre- 
 sented in ancient marbk-s; a mouth expressing a capability for 
 and tendency to strong emotion, habitually controlled by pride. 
 There was a severity ai)out the lower outlines of the face which 
 gave a masculine cast to this portion of her countenance. 
 Womanly weakness was nowhere visible save in one part — the 
 curve of the forehead and brows; there it was clear and em- 
 phatic. She wore a lace shawl over a brown silk dress, and a 
 net bonnet set with a few blue cornflowers. 
 
 "Vou inserted the advertisement for a situation as lady's 
 maid, giving the address G, Cross street?" 
 
 "Yes, madam. Graye." 
 
 "Yes, I have heard your name — Mrs. Morris, my house- 
 keeper, mentioned you. and pointed out your advertisement." 
 
 This was puzzling intelligence, but there was not time enough 
 to consider it. 
 
 "Where did you live last?" contimied Miss AldclyfTe. 
 
 "I have never been a servant before. I lived at home." 
 
 "Never been out? I thought, too, at sight of you that you 
 W(.-re too girlish-looking to have done nuicli. Rut why did you 
 advertise with such assurance? It misleads people." 
 
 "I am very sorry: I put 'ine.xperienced' at first, but my 
 brother .said it is absurd to trumpet your own weakness to the 
 world, and would not let it remain." 
 
 "But your mother knew what was right. I suppose?" 
 
 "I have no mother, madam." 
 
 "Your father, then?" 
 
 "I have no father." 
 
 "Well." she said, more softly, "your sisters, aunts, or cousins?" 
 
 "They didn't think anything about it." 
 
 "You didn't ask them, I suppose?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You should have. then. Why didn't you?" 
 
 "Because I haven't any of them, either." 
 
 Miss Aldclyflfe showed her surprise. "You deserve forgive- 
 t^css, then, at any rate, child." she .said, in a sort of dryly kind 
 \nnc. "However. T am afraid you do not suit me. as I am 
 looking for an elderly person. You see, I want an experienced 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 51 
 
 maid who knows all the usual duties of the office." She was 
 going to add, "Though I like your appearance," but the words 
 seemed offensive to apply to the ladylike girl before her, and 
 she modified them to, "Though I like you much." 
 
 "I am sorry I misled you, madam," said Cytherea. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe stood in a reverie, without replying. 
 
 "Good-aftemoon," continued Cytherea. 
 
 "Good-by, Miss Graye. I hope you will succeed." 
 
 Cytherea turned away toward the door. The movement 
 chanced to be one of her masterpieces. It was precise: it had 
 as much beauty as was compatible with precision, and as little 
 coquettishness as was compatible with beauty. 
 
 And she had in turning looked over her shoulder at the other 
 lady with a faint accent of reproach in her face. Those who 
 remember Greuze's "Head of a Girl" in one of the public picture 
 galleries have an idea of Cytherea's look askance at the turning. 
 It is not for a man to tell fishers of men how to set out their 
 fascinations so as to bring about the highest possible average 
 of takes within the year; but the action that tugs the hardest 
 of all at an emotional beholder is this sweet method of turning 
 which steals the bosom away and leaves the eyes behind. 
 
 Now ]\Iiss Aldclyffe herself was no tyro at wheeling. When 
 Cytherea had closed the door upon her, she remained for some 
 time in her motionless attitude, listening to the gradually dying 
 sound of the maiden's retreating footsteps. She niurmured to 
 herself, "It is almost worth while to be bored with instructing 
 lier in order to have a creature who could glide round my 
 luxurious, indolent body in that manner, and look at me in that 
 way — I warrant how light her fingers are upon one's head and 
 
 neck What a silly, modest young thing she is, to 
 
 go away as suddenly as that!" She rang the bell. 
 
 "Ask the young lady who has just left me to step back 
 again," she said to the attendant. "Quick ! or she will be gone." 
 
 Cytherea was now in the vestibule, thinking that if she had 
 told her story, Miss Aldclyffe might perhaps have taken her 
 into the household; yet her history she particularly wished to 
 conceal from a stranger. When slie was recalled, she turned 
 back without feeling much surprise. Something, she knew not 
 what, told her she had not seen the last of Miss Aldclyffe. 
 
 "You have somebody to refer me to, of course," the lady 
 said when Cvtherea had re-entered the room. 
 
52 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Yes; Mr. Thom, a solicitor at Reading." 
 
 "And are yon a clever needlewoman?" 
 
 "I am considered to be." 
 
 "Then I think that at any rale I will write to Mr. Thorn," said 
 Miss Aldclyffe, with a little smile. "It is trne, the whole pro- 
 ceeding is very irregular; but my present maid leaves next 
 M(jnday, and neither of the five I have already seen seem to do 
 
 for me Well, 1 will write to Mr. Thorn, and if his 
 
 reply is satisfactory you shall hear from me. It will be as well 
 to set yourself in readiness to come on Monday." 
 
 When Cytherea had again been watched out of the room, 
 Miss AldclyfTe asked for writing materials, that she might at 
 once communicate with Mr. Thorn. She indecisively played 
 with the pen. "Suppose Mr. Thorn's reply to be in any way 
 disheartening — and even if so from his own imperfect acquaint- 
 ance with the young creature more than from circumstantial 
 knowledge — 1 shall feel obliged to give her up. Then I shall 
 regret that I did not give her one trial in spite of other people's 
 prejudices. All her account of herself is reliable enough — yes, 
 1 can see that in her face. I like that face of hers." 
 
 Miss AldclyfTe put down the pen, and left the hotel without 
 writing to Mr. Thorn. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY. 
 §1. August the eighth. Morning and afternoon. 
 
 At post time on that following Monday morning-, Cytherea 
 watched so anxiously for the postman that as the time which 
 must bring him narrowed less and less her vivid expectation had 
 only a degree less tangibility than his presence itself. In an- 
 other second his form came into view. He brought two letters 
 for Cytherea. 
 
 One from Miss AldclyfTe, simply stating that she wished 
 Cytherea to come on trial ; that she would require her to be at 
 Knapwater House by Monday evening. 
 
 The other was from Edward Springrove. He told her that 
 she was the bright spot of his life; that her existence was far 
 dearer to him than his own; that he had never known what 
 it was to love till he had met her. True, he had felt passing 
 attachments to other faces from time to time; but they all had 
 been Vv^eak inclinations toward those faces as they then ap- 
 peared. He loved her past and future, as well as her present. 
 He pictured her as a child : he loved her. He pictured her of 
 sage years: he loved her. He pictured her in trouble: he loved 
 her. Homely friendship entered into his love for her, without 
 which all love was evanescent. 
 
 He would make one depressing statement. Uncontrollable 
 circumstance (a long history, with which it was impossible to 
 acquaint her at present) operated to a certain extent as a drag 
 upon his wishes. He had felt this more strongly at the time 
 of their parting than he did now — and it was the cause of his 
 abrupt behavior, for which he begged her to forgive him. He 
 saw now an honorable way of freeing himself, and th.e percep- 
 tion had prompted him to :\rite. In the meantime might he 
 
54 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 iiululg-c in the hope of posscssinj^ her on sonic bright future day. 
 when, by hard labor gencratcil from her own cncourapiiji^ 
 worils, he had phiced himself in a position she would think 
 worthy to be shared with him?'' 
 
 Dear little letter! She huddled it up. How much more im- 
 portant a love letter seems U) a girl than to a man! Springrove 
 was unconsciously clever in his letters, and a man with a talent 
 of that kind may write himself up to a hero in the mind of a 
 young woman who loves him without knowing much about 
 liim. Springrove already stood a cubit higher in her imagina- 
 tion than he did in his shoes. 
 
 During the day she flitted about the room in an ecstasy of 
 pleasure, packing the things and thinking of an answer which 
 should be worthy of the tender tone of the question, her love 
 bubbling from her involuntarily, like prophecyings from a 
 prophet. 
 
 In the afternoon Owen went with her to the railway station, 
 and put her in the train for Carriford Road, the station nearest 
 Kna])water House. 
 
 Half an hour later she stepped out upon the platfonn, and 
 found nobody there to receive her — though a pony-carriage was 
 w aiting outside. In two minutes she saw a melancholy luan in 
 cheerful livery running toward her from a public-house close 
 adjoining, who proved to be the servant sent to fetch her. There 
 are two wa\s of getting rid of sorrows: one by living them 
 down, the other by drowning them. The coachman drowned 
 his. 
 
 He informed her that her luggage would be fetched by a 
 spring wagon in about half an hour, then helped her into the 
 ciiaisc and drove ofT. 
 
 Her lover's letter, lying close against her neck, fortifictl her 
 against the restless tiiuidity she had previously felt concerning 
 tb.is new undertaking, and completely furnished her with the 
 confident ease of mind which is required for the critical observa- 
 tion of surrounding objects. It was just that stage in the slow 
 flecline of the sununcr days, when the deep. dark, and vacuous 
 hot-weather shadows are lieginning to be replaced by blue ones 
 that have a surface and substance to the eye. Tliey trotted 
 along the turnpike road for a distance of about a miJe, which 
 brought them just outside the village of Carriford. and then 
 tinned through large lodge gates, on the heavy stone piers of 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 55 
 
 which stood a pair of bitterns cast in bronze. They then entered 
 the park and wound along a drive shaded by old and drooping 
 lime-trees, not arranged in the form of an avenue, but standing 
 irregularly, sometimes leaving the track completely exposed to 
 the sky, at other times casting a shade over it which almost 
 approached gloom — the under surface of the lowest boughs 
 hanging at a uniform level of six feet above the grass, the 
 extreme height to which the nibbling mouths of the cattle could 
 reach. 
 
 "Is that the house?" said Cytherca expectantly, catching- 
 sight of a gray gable between the trees, and losing it again. 
 
 "No; that's the old manor-house — or rather all that's left of 
 it. The Aldclyffes used to let it sometimes, but it was oftener 
 empty. 'Tis now divided into three cottages. Respectable 
 people didn't care to live there." 
 
 "Why didn't they?" 
 
 "Weil, 'tis so awkward and unhandy. You see, so much of 
 it has been pulled down, and the rooms that are left won't do 
 very well for a small residence. 'Tis so dismal, too, and like 
 most old houses stands too low down in the hollow to be 
 healthy." 
 
 "Do they tell any horrid stories about it?" 
 
 "No, not a single one." 
 
 "Ah, that's a pity." 
 
 "Yes, that's what I say. 'Tis just the house for a nice ghastly 
 hair-on-end story, that would make the parish religious. Per- 
 haps it will have one some day to make it complete ; but there's 
 not a word of the kind now. There, I wouldn't live there for 
 all tiiat. In fact, I couldn't. Oh, no, I couldn't." 
 
 "Why couldn't you?" 
 ■ "The sounds." 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 "One is the waterfall, which stands so close by that you can 
 hear that there waterfall in every room of the house, night or 
 day, ill or well. 'Tis enough to drive anybody mad; now 
 listen." 
 
 He stopped the horse. Above the slight common sounds 
 in the air came the unvarying steady rush of falling water from 
 some spot unseen on account of the thick foliage of the grove. 
 
 "There's something awful in the regularity of that sound, is 
 there not, miss?" 
 
5C DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Wlicn you say there is, there really seems to he. Yon said 
 tiicre were two — what is the other horrid sound?" 
 
 "The pnuipiiif^ en.u^ine. That's clo.se by the Old House, and 
 sends water up tlie hill and all over the Great House. We shall 
 hear that directly There, now listen." 
 
 From the same direction down the dell they could now hear 
 the whistling creak of cranks, repeated at intervals of half a 
 minute, with a sousing noise between each; a creak, a souse, 
 then another creak, and so on continually. 
 
 "\ow, if anybody could make shift to live through the other 
 sounds, these would finish him ofT, don't you think so, miss? 
 That machine goes on night and day, summer and winter, and 
 is hardly ever greased or visited. Ah. it tries the nerves at night, 
 especially if you are not very well; though we don't very often 
 hear it at the Great House." 
 
 "That sound is certainly ver\' dismal. They might have the 
 wheel greased. Does Miss AldclyfTe take any interest in these 
 things?" 
 
 "\Vell, scarcely; you see her father doesn't attend to that sort 
 of thing as he used to. The engine was once quite his hobby. 
 lUit now he's getting old and very selilom goes there." 
 
 "How many are there in the family?" 
 
 "Only her father and herself. He's an old man of seventy." 
 
 "I had thought that Miss AldclyfFe was sole mistress of the 
 property, and lived here alone." 
 
 "Xo, m — " The coachman was continually checking him- 
 self thus, being about to style her miss involuntarily, and then 
 recollecting that he was only speaking to the new lady's maid. 
 
 "She will soon be mistress, however, I am afraid," he con- 
 tinued, as if speaking by a spirit of prophecy denied to ordi- 
 nary humanity. "The poor gentleman has decayed verv' fast 
 latelv." The man then drew a long breath. 
 
 "Why did you breathe sadly like that?" said Cytherca. 
 
 "Ah! .... When he's dead peace will be all over with 
 us old scrv'ants. I expect to see the whole house turned inside 
 out." 
 
 "She will marn-, do you mean?" 
 
 "Marr}' — not she! I wish she would. Xo, in her soul she's 
 as solitary as Robinson Crusoe, though she has acquaintances 
 in plenty, if not relations. There's the rector, Mr. Raunham — 
 he's a relation by marriage, yet she's cjuite distant toward him. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 57 
 
 And people say that if she keeps single there will be hardly a 
 life between Mr. Raunham and the heirship of the estate. Dang 
 it, she don't care. She's an extraordinary picture of woman- 
 kind—very extraordinary." 
 
 "In what way besides?" 
 
 "You'll know soon enough, miss. She has had seven lady's 
 maids this last twelvemonth. I assure you 'tis one body's work 
 to fetch 'em from the station and take 'em back again. The 
 Lord must be a Tory at heart, or he'd never permit such over- 
 bearen goings on." 
 
 "Does she dismiss them directly they come?" 
 
 "Not at all — she never dismisses them — they go tJiemselves. 
 You see 'tis like this. She's got a very quick temper; she flies 
 in a passion with them for nothing at all; next mornen they 
 come up and say they are going; she's sorry for it, and wishes 
 they'd stay, but she's as proud as Lucifer, and her pride won't 
 let her say 'Stay,' and away they go. 'Tis like this in fact. If 
 you say to her about anybody, 'Ah, poor thing!' she says, 'Pish! 
 indeed!' If you say, 'Pish! indeed!' 'Ah, poor thing!' she says 
 directly. She hangs the chief baker, and restores the chief but- 
 ler, though the devil but Pharaoh herself can see the difierence 
 between 'em." 
 
 Cytherea was silent. She feared she might be again a burden 
 to her brother. 
 
 "However, you stand a very good chance," the man went on; 
 "for I think she likes you more than common. I have never 
 known her to send the pony-carriage to meet one before — 'tis 
 always the trap ; but this time she said, in a very particular lady- 
 like tone, 'Roobert, gow with the pony-kerriage.' .... 
 There, 'tis true, pony and carriage, too, are getten rather shabby 
 now," he added, looking round upon the vehicle as if to keep 
 Cytiierea's pride within reasonable limits. 
 
 " 'Tis to be hoped you'll please in dressen her to-night." 
 
 "Why to-night?" 
 
 "There's a dinner-party of seventeen; 'tis her father's birth- 
 day, and she's very particular about her appearance at such 
 times. Now look; this is the house. Livelier up here, isn't it, 
 miss?" 
 
 They were now on rising ground, and had just emerged from 
 a clump of trees. Still a little higher up than where they stood 
 
DS DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 was situatc'l the mansion, called Knapwater House, the offices 
 gradually losing themselves among the trees behind. 
 
 § 2. Evening. 
 
 The house was regularly and substantially built of clean gray 
 freestone throughout, in that plainer fashion of Greek classi- 
 cism that prevailed at the latter end of the last century, when 
 the copyists called designers had grown weary of fantastic 
 variations in the Roman orders. The main block approximated 
 to a square on the ground plan, having a projection in the cen- 
 ter of each side, surmounted by a pediment. From each angle 
 of the cast side ran a line of buildings lower than the rest, turn- 
 ing inward again at their farther end and forming within them 
 a spacious open court, within which resounded an echo of 
 astonishing clearness. These erections were in their turn backed 
 by ivy-covered ice-houses, laundries, and stables, the whole 
 mass of subsidiary buildings being half-buried beneath close- 
 set shrubs and trees. 
 
 There was opening sufficient through the foliage on the right 
 hand to enable her on nearer approach to form an idea of the 
 arrangement of the remoter or soutli front also. The natural 
 features and contour of this quarter of the site had evidently 
 dictated the position of the house primarily, and were of the 
 ordinary, and, upon the whole, most satisfactory' kind, namely, 
 a broad, graceful slope running from the terrace beneath the 
 walls to the margin of a placid lake lying below, upon the sur- 
 face of which a dozen swans and a green punt floated at leisure. 
 An irregular wooded island stood in the midst of the lake: 
 beyond this and the further margin of the water were planta- 
 tions and greensward of varied outlines, the trees heightening. 
 l)y half-veiling, the softness of the exquisite landscape stretch- 
 ing behind. 
 
 The glimpses she had detained of this portion were now 
 checked by the angle of the building. In a minute or two they 
 reached the side door, at which Cytherea alighted. She was 
 welcomed by an elderly woman of lengthy smiles and general 
 ])leasantness, who announced herself to be M^rs. Morris, the 
 housekeeper. 
 
 "Mrs. Graye, T believe?" she said. 
 
 "I am not — oh, ves, we are all mistresses," said Cvtheron. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 59 
 
 smiling-, but forcedly. The title accorded her seemed disagree- 
 ably like the first slight scar of a brand, and she thought of 
 Owen's prophecy. 
 
 Airs. Alorris led her into a comfortable parlor called The 
 Room. Here tea was made ready, and Cytherea sat down, 
 looking whenever occasion allowed at Mrs. Morris with great 
 interest and curiosity, to discover if possible something in her 
 which should give a clue to the secret of her knowledge of her- 
 self, and the recommendation based upon it. But nothing was 
 to be learned, at any rate just then. Mrs. Morris was perpetually 
 getting up, feeling in her pockets, going to cupboards, leaving 
 the room for two or three minutes, and trotting back again. 
 
 "You'll excuse me, Mrs. Graye," she said. "But 'tis the old 
 gentleman's birthday, and they always have a lot of people to 
 dinner on that day, though he's getting up in years now. How- 
 ever, none of them are sleepers — she generally keeps the house 
 pretty clear of lodgers (being a lady with no intimate friends, 
 though many acquaintances), which, though it gives us less to 
 do, makes it all the duller for the younger maids in the house." 
 ]\Irs. Morris then proceeded to give in fragmentary speeches 
 an outline of the constitution and government of the estate. 
 
 "Now are you sure you have quite done tea? Not a bit or 
 
 drop more? Why, you've eaten nothing, I'm sure 
 
 Well, now, it is rather inconvenient that the other maid is not 
 here to show you the ways of the house a little, but she left last 
 Saturday, and Miss Aldclyffe has been making shift with poor 
 old clumsy me for a maid all yesterday and this morning. She 
 is not come in yet. I expect she will ask for you, Mrs. Graye, 
 
 the first thing I was going to say that if you have 
 
 really done tea, I will take you upstairs and show you through 
 the wardrobes — Miss Aldclyfife's things are not laid out for the 
 night yet." 
 
 She preceded Cytherea upstairs, pointed out her own room, 
 and then took her into Miss Aldclyffe's dressing-room, on the 
 first floor; where, after explaining the whereabout of various 
 articles of apparel, the housekeeper left her, telling her that she 
 had an hour yet upon her hands before dressing-time. Cytherea 
 laid out upon the bed in the next room all that she had been 
 told would be required that evening, and then went again to 
 the little room w^iich had been appropriated to herself. 
 
 Here she sat down by the open window, leaned out upon the 
 
60 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 sill like another Blessed Daniozel, and listlessly looked down 
 upon tiic brilliant pattern of colors formed by the flower-beds 
 on the lawn — now richly crowded with late summer blossom. 
 I'.ut the vivacity of spirit which had hitherto enlivened her was 
 fast ebbinjij under the pressure of prosaic realities, and the warm 
 scarlet of the geraniums, glowing^ most conspicuously, and 
 minj^linpf with the vivid colcl red and green of the verbenas, the 
 rich depth of the dahlia, and the ripe mellowness of the calceo- 
 laria, backed by the pale hue of a tlock of meek sheep feeding 
 in the open park, close to the other side of the fence, were, to 
 a great extent, lost upon her eyes. She was thinking that noth- 
 ing seemed worth while; that it was possible she might die in a 
 workhouse; and what did it matter? The petty, vulgar de- 
 tails of scr\-itude that she had just passed through, her depend- 
 ence wpnn tlie whims of a strange woman, the necessity of 
 quenching all individuality of character in herself, and relin- 
 quishing her own peculiar tastes to help on the wheel of this 
 alien establishment, made her sick and sad. and she almost 
 longed to pursue some free, out-of-doors employment, sleep 
 under trees or a hut, and know no enemy but winter and cold 
 weather, like shepherds and cowkeepers, and birds and animals 
 — ay, like the sheep she saw there under her window. She 
 looked sympathizingly at them for several minutes, imagining 
 their enjoyment of the rich grass. 
 
 "Yes — like those sheep." she said aloud; and her face 
 reddened with surprise at a discovery she made that very in- 
 stant. 
 
 The flock consisted of some ninety or a hundred young stock 
 ewes; the surface of their fleece was as rounded and even as 
 a cushioi\, and white as milk. Now she had just obsen'ed that 
 on the left buttock of ever)- one of them were marked in distinct 
 red letters the initials "E. S." 
 
 "E. S." could bring to Cytherea's mind only one thought, 
 but that inmicdiately and forever — the name of her lover, Ed- 
 ward .*-^pringrove. 
 
 "Oh, if it should be . . . !" She interrupted her words 
 by a resolve. Miss AldclyfTe's carriage at the same moment 
 made its appearance in the drive; but Miss AldclyfFe was not 
 her object now. It was to ascertain to whom the sheep belonged 
 and to set her surmise at rest one way or the other. She flew 
 downstairs to Mrs. Morris. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 61 
 
 "Whose sheep are those in the park, Mrs. Morris?" 
 
 "Farmer Springrove's." 
 
 "What Farmer Springrove is that?" she said quickly. 
 
 "Why, surely you know? Your friend, Farmer Springrove, 
 the cider-maker, who keeps the Three Tranters Inn, who 
 recommended you to me when he came in to see me the other 
 day?" 
 
 Cytherea's mother-wit suddenly warned her in the midst of 
 her excitement that it was necessary not to betray the secret of 
 her love. "Oh, yes," she said, "of course." Her thoughts had 
 run as follows in that short interval: 
 
 "Farmer Springrove is Edward's father, and his name is 
 Edward, too. 
 
 "Edward knew I was going to advertise for a situation of 
 some kind. 
 
 "He watched the Times, and saw it, my address being at- 
 tached. 
 
 "He thought it v^-ould be excellent for me to be here that we 
 might meet whenever he came home. 
 
 "He told his father that I might be recommended as a lady's 
 maid ; that he knew my brother and myself. 
 
 "His father told Airs. Morris; Mrs. Morris told Miss Ald- 
 clyffe." 
 
 The whole chain of incidents that drew her there was plain, 
 and there was no such thing as chance in the matter. It was all 
 Edward's doing. 
 
 The sound of a bell was heard. Cytherea did not heed it, and 
 she continued in her reverie. 
 
 "That's Miss Aldclyffe's bell," said Mrs. INIorris. 
 
 "I suppose it is," said the young woman placidly. 
 
 "Well, it means that you must go up to her," the matron con- 
 tinued, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 Cytherea felt a burning heat come over her, mingled with a 
 sudden irritation at Mrs. Morris' hint. But the good sense 
 which had recognized stern necessity prevailed over rebellious 
 indepndence; the flush passed, and she said hastily: 
 
 "Yes, yes; of course I must go to her when she pulls the bell 
 — whether I want to of no." 
 
 However, in spite of this painful reminder of her new position 
 in life, Cytherea left the apartment in a mood far different from 
 the gloomy sadness of ten minutes previous. The place felt 
 
 6 
 
62 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 like home to licr now; she did not mind the pettiness oi lu r 
 occupation, because Edward evidently did not mind it; and thi 
 was Edward's own spot. She found time on her way to Mi- 
 AldclyfTc's dressing-room to hurriedly glide out by a side do. >v 
 and \<n)k for a moment at the unconscious sheep bearing tlu 
 friendly initials. She went up to them to try to touch one of 
 the flock, and felt yexed that they all stared skeptically at her 
 kind advances and then ran pell-mell down the hill. Then, fear- 
 ing any one should discover her childish movements, she slipped 
 indoors again, and ascended the staircase, catching glimpses, a- 
 she passed, of silver-buttoned footmen, who flashed about tli 
 passages like lightning. 
 
 Miss Alilclyflfe's dressing-room was an apartment which, c 
 a casual survey, conveyed the impression that it was availalil 
 for almost any purpose save the adornment of the feminni 
 person. In its hours of perfect order nothing pertaining to tiv 
 toilet was visible; even the inevitable mirrors with their acct- 
 series were arranged in a roomy recess not noticeable from tli 
 door, lighted by a window of its own, called the dressing- 
 window. 
 
 The washing-stand figured as a vast oak chest, carved with 
 grotesque Renaissance ornament. The dressing-table was in 
 appearance something between a high altar and a cabinet 
 piano, the surface being richly worked in the same style of 
 semi-classic decoration, but the extraordinary outline having 
 been arrived at by Mr. James Sparkman, an ingenious joiner and 
 decorator from the neighboring town, after months of painful 
 toil in cutting and fitting, under Miss Aldclyflfe's immedia' 
 eye, the materials being the remains of two or three old cabinet 
 the lady had found in the lumber-room. About two-thirds oi 
 the floor was carpeted, the remaining portion being laid with 
 parquetry of light and dark w»iods. 
 
 Miss AldclyfTc was standing at the larger window, away from 
 the dressing-niche. She bowed and said pleasantly, "I am glad 
 you have come. We shall get on capitally, I dare say." 
 
 Her bonnet was off. Cytherea did not think her so hand- 
 some as on the earlier day; the quecnlinesss of her beauty was 
 harder and less warm. Rut a worse discovery than this was 
 that Miss AldclyfTc, with the usual obliviousness of rich people 
 to their dependents' specialties, seemed to have forgotten Cy- 
 therea's inexperience, and mechanically delivered up her body 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 63 
 
 to her handmaid without a thought of details, and with a mild 
 yawn. 
 
 Everything went well at first. The dress was removed, stock- 
 ings and black boots were taken off, and silk stockings and 
 white shoes were put on. Miss Aldclyfife then retired to bathe 
 her hands and face, and Cytherea drew breath. If she could 
 get through this first evening, all would be right. She felt that 
 it was unfortunate that such a crucial test for her powers as a 
 birthday dinner should have been applied on the threshold of 
 her arrival, but u'lmporte. 
 
 Miss AldclyfTe was now arrayed in a white Jressing-gown, 
 and dropped languidly into an easy-chair pushed up before the 
 glass. The instincts of her sex and her own practice told 
 Cytherea tlie next movement. She let Miss AldclyfTe's hair 
 fall down about her shoulders, and began to arrange it. It 
 proved to be all real — a satisfaction. 
 
 ]\Iiss AldclyfTe was musingly looking on the floor, and the 
 operation went on for some minutes in silence. At length her 
 thoughts seemed to return to the present, and she lifted her eyes 
 to the glass. 
 
 "Why, what on earth are you doing with my head?" she 
 exclaimed, with widely opened eyes. At the words she felt the 
 back of Cytherea's little hand tremble against her neck. 
 
 '"Perhaps you prefer it done the other fashion, madam?" said 
 the maiden. 
 
 "No, no; that's the fashion right enough, but you must make 
 more show of my hair than that, or I shall have to buy some, 
 which God forbid." 
 
 "It is how I do my own," said Cytherea naively, and with a 
 sweetness of tone which would have pleased the most acri- 
 monious under favorable circumstances; but tyranny was in the 
 ascendant with Miss AldclyfTe at this moment, and she was 
 assured of palatable food for her vice by having felt the trem- 
 bling of Cytherea's hand. 
 
 "Yours, indeed! Your hair! come, go on." 
 
 Considering that Cytherea possessed at least five times as 
 much of that valuable auxiliary to woman's beauty as the lady 
 before her, there was at the same time some excuse for Miss 
 AldclyfTe's outburst. She remembered herself, however, and 
 said more quietly, "Now, then, Graye . . . . By the by, 
 what do thev call you downstairs?" 
 
 5 
 
64 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Mrs. Grave," said the handmaid. 
 
 "Then tell thcin not to do any sucli absurd thinc:^ — not but 
 that it is quite according to usage; but vou are too voung- 
 yet." 
 
 Ihc dialogue tided Cytherea safely onward through the 
 hairdressing till the ilowers and diamonds were to be placed 
 upon the lady's brow. Cytherea began arranging them taste- 
 fully, and to the very best of her judgment. 
 
 "That won't do," said Miss AldclvlTe harshly. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I look too young — an old dressed doll." 
 
 ''Will that, madarii?" 
 
 "Xo. I look a fright — a perfect fright." 
 
 "This way, perhaps?" 
 
 "Heavens! Don't worry me so." She shut her lips like a 
 trap. 
 
 Having once worked herself up to the belief that her head 
 dress was to be a failure that evening, no cleverness of Cy- 
 therea's in arranging it could please her. She continued in a 
 smoldering passion during the remainder of the performance, 
 keeping her lips firmly closed and the muscles of her body rigid. 
 I'inally, snatching up her gloves, and taking her handkerchief 
 and fan in her hand, she silently sailed out of the room, without 
 betraying the least consciousness of another woman's presence 
 behind her. 
 
 Cytherea's fears that at the undressing this suppressed anger 
 would find a vent kept her on thorns throughout the evening. 
 She tried to read; she could not. She tried to sew; she could 
 not. She tried to muse; she could not do that connectedly. 
 "If this is the beginning, what will the end be?" she said in a 
 whi.sper, and felt many misgivings as to the policy of being 
 over-hasty in establishing an independence at the expense of 
 congruity with a cherished past. 
 
 § 3. il//,////c///. 
 
 The sole object of this narration being to present in a regular 
 series the several episodes and incidents which directly helped 
 forward the end, and only these, every continuous scene witli 
 out this qualification is necessarily passed over, and as one, tin 
 AldclvfTe state dinner. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 65 
 
 The clock struck twelve. The company had all gone, and 
 Miss Aldclyft'e's bell rang loud and jerkingly. 
 
 Cytherea started to her feet at tlie sound, which broke in 
 upon a fitful sleep that had overtaken her. She had been sitting 
 drearily in her chair waiting minute after minute for the signal, 
 her brain in that state of intentness which takes cognizance of 
 the passage of time as a real motion — motion without matter 
 — the instants throbbing past in the company of a feverish pulse. 
 She hastened to the room, to find the lady sitting before the 
 dressing-shrine, illuminated on both sides, and looking so 
 queenly in her attitude of absolute repose that the younger 
 woman felt the awfulest sense of responsibility at her vandalism 
 in liaving undertaken to demolish so imposing a pile. 
 
 The lady's jeweled ornaments were taken off in silence, some 
 by her own listless hands, some by Cytherea's. Then followed 
 tlie outer stratum of clothing. The dress being removed, Cy- 
 therea took it in her hand and vvcnt with it into the bedroom 
 adjoining, intending to hang it in the wardrobe; but on sec- 
 ond thought, in order that she might not keep Miss Aldclyffe 
 waiting a moment longer than necessary, she flung it down on 
 the first resting-place that came to hand, which happened to be 
 the bed, and re-entered the dressing-room with the noiseless 
 footfall of a kitten. She paused in the middle of the room. 
 
 She was unnoticed, and her sudden return had plainly not 
 been expected. During the short time of Cytherea's absence. 
 Miss Aldclyfife had pulled off a kind of chemisette of Brussels 
 r.et, drawn high above the throat, which she had worn with her 
 c\ cning dress as a semi-opaque covering to her shoulders, and 
 in its place had put her night-dress round her. Her right hand 
 was lifted to her neck, as if engaged in fastening her night- 
 dress. 
 
 But on a second glance Miss Aldclyffe's proceeding was 
 clearer to Cytherea. She was not fastening her night-dress ; it 
 had been carelessly thrown around her, and Aliss Aldclyffe was 
 really occupied in holding up to her eyes some small object 
 that she was keenly scrutinizing. And now on suddenly dis- 
 covering the presence of Cytherea at the back of the apartment, 
 instead of naturally contiiming or concluding her inspection, 
 she desisted hurriedly; the tiny snap of a spring was heard, her 
 hand was removed, and she began, adjusting her robes. 
 
 Modesty might have directed her hasty action of enwrapping 
 
 6 
 
C6 DESPERATK REMEDIES. 
 
 her shoulders, but it was scarcely likely, considering Miss Ald- 
 clyfTc's temperament, that she had all her life been used to a 
 maid, Cytherea's youth, and the elder lady's marked treatment 
 of her as if she were a mere child or plaything. The matter 
 was loo slight to reason about, and yet upon the whole it seemed 
 that Miss Aldclyffe must have a practical reason for conccalini; 
 her neck. 
 
 \\'ith a timid sense of being an intruder Cytherea was abov 
 to step back and out of the room; but at the same momeir 
 Miss Aldclyffe turned, saw the impulse, and told her companion 
 to stay, looking into her eyes as if she had half an intention to 
 explain something. Cytherea felt certain it was the little my>- 
 ter)' of her late movements. The lady withdrew her eyes: Cy 
 therea went to fetch the dressing-gown, and wheeled around 
 again to bring it up to Miss AldclyfFc, who had now partly re- 
 moved her night-dress to put it on the proper way, and still sat 
 with her back toward Cytherea. 
 
 Her neck was again quite open and uncovered, and though 
 hidden from the direct line of Cytherea's visioTi. she saw it rt 
 fleeted in the glass — the fair white surface and the inimitabl. 
 combination of cur\'es between throat and bosom which artist ^ 
 adore being brightly lit up by the light burning on either side. 
 
 And the lady's prior proceedings were now explained in the 
 simplest manner. In the midst of her breast, like an island in a 
 sea of pearl, reclined an exquisite little gold locket, embellished 
 with aral)csque work of blue. red. and white enamel. That was 
 undoubtedly what Miss AldclyfTe had been contemplating, and, 
 moreover, not having been put ofT with her other ornaments, 
 it was to be retained during the night — a slight departure from 
 the custom of ladies which Miss Aldclyffe had at first not cared 
 to exhibit to her new assistant, though now. on further thought, 
 she seemed to have become indifferent on the matter. 
 
 "My dressing-gown," she said quietly, fastening her night- 
 dress as she spoke. 
 
 Cytherea came fonvard with it. Miss Aldclyffe did not turn 
 her head, but looked inquiringly at her maid in the glass. 
 
 "You saw what I wear on my neck, I suppose?" she said t' ■ 
 Cytherea's reflected face. 
 
 "Yes, madam. I did." said Cytherea to Miss Aldycliffc'- 
 reflected face. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe again looked at Cytherea's reflection as if she 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 67 
 
 were on the point of explaining. Again she checked her re- 
 solve and said lightly: 
 
 "Few of my maids discover that I wear it always. I generally 
 keep it a secret — not that it matters much. But I was careless 
 with you, and seemed to want to tell you. You win me to 
 make confidences that . . . ." 
 
 She ceased, took Cythcrea's hand in her own, lifted the locket 
 with the other, touched the spring, and disclosed a miniature. 
 
 "It is a handsome face, is it not?" she whispered mournfully, 
 and even timidly. 
 
 "It is." 
 
 But the sight had gone through Cytherea like an electric 
 shock, and there was an instantaneous awakening of perception 
 in her, so thrilling in its presence as to be well-nigh insupport- 
 able. The face in the miniature was the face of her own father 
 — younger and fresher than she had ever known him, but her 
 father! 
 
 Was this the woman of his wild and unquenchable early 
 love? And was this the woman who had figured in the gate- 
 man's story as answering the name of Cytherea before her 
 judgment was awake? Surely it was. And if so, here was the 
 tangible outcrop of a romantic and hidden stratum of the past 
 hitherto seen only in her imagination; but as far as her scope 
 allowed, clearly defined therein by reason of its strangeness. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe's eyes and thoughts were so intent upon the 
 miniature that she had not been conscious of Cytherea's start of 
 surprise. She went on, speaking in a low and abstracted tone: 
 
 "Yes, I lost him." She interrupted her words by a short 
 meditation, and went on again. "I lost him by excess of 
 honesty as regarded my past. But it was best that it should be 
 
 so I was led to think rather more than usual of 
 
 the circumstances to-night because of your name. It is pro- 
 nounced the same way, though differently spelled." 
 
 The only means by which Cytherea's surname could have 
 been spelled to ]\Iiss Aldclyfife must have been by Mrs. Morris 
 or Farmer Springrove. She fancied Farmer Springrove would 
 have spelled it properly if Edward was his informant, which 
 made Miss Aldclyffe's remark obscure. 
 
 Women make confidences and then regret them. 
 
 The impulsive rush of feeling which had led Miss Aldclyfife 
 to indulge in this revelation, trifling as it was, died out immedi- 
 
68 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 ately her words were beyond recall, and the turmoil occasioned 
 in her by dwelling u|)on that chapter of her life found vent in 
 another kind of emotion — the result of a trivial accident. 
 
 Cytherea, after letlinjj down Miss Aldcly lie's hair, adopted 
 some plan with it to which the lady had not been accustomed. 
 A rai)id revulsion to irritation ensued. The maiden's mere 
 touch seemed to dischargee the pent-up regret of the lady as if 
 she had been a jar uf electricity. 
 
 "How strangely you treat my hair!" she exclaimed. 
 
 A silence. 
 
 "I have told you what I never tell my maids as a rule; cf 
 course nothing that I say in this room is to be mentioned 
 outside of it." She spoke crossly no less than emphatically. 
 
 "It shall not be, madam," said Cytherea. agitated and vexed 
 that the woman of her romantic wonderings should be s<» 
 disagreeable to her. 
 
 "Why on earth did I tell you of my love?" she went on. 
 
 Cytherea made no answer. 
 
 The lady's vexation with herself and the accident which 
 had led to the disclosure swelled little by Uttle till it knew no 
 bounds. But what was done could not be undone, and though 
 Cytherea had shown a most winning responsiveness, quarrel 
 Miss AldclylTe must. She recurred to the subject of Cytherea'> 
 want of expertness, like a bitter reviewer, who, finding th 
 sentiments of a poet unimpeachable, quarrels with his rhyme-. 
 
 "Never, never before did I serve myself such a trick as thi- 
 in engaging a maid." She waited for an expostulation: none 
 came. \Iiss AldclyfTc tried again. 
 
 "The idea of my taking a girl without asking her more than 
 three questions, or having a single reference, all because of her 
 
 good 1 , the shape of her face and body! It was a fool's 
 
 trick. There, I am served right — quite right, by being deceived 
 in such a way." 
 
 'T didn't deceive you," said Cytherea. The speech was an un 
 fortunate one. and was the very "fuel to maintain its fires" that 
 the other's petulance desired. 
 
 "Ynti did." she said hotly. 
 
 "I told you I couldn't promise to be acquainted with every 
 detail of routine just at first." 
 
 "Will you contradict me in this way! You are telling un- 
 truths, 1 say." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 69 
 
 Cytherea's lip quivered. "I would answer that rcmarlv if 
 
 "If what?" 
 
 "If it were a lady's!" 
 
 "You girl of impudence — what do you say? Leave the room 
 this instant, I tell you." 
 
 "And I tell you that a person who speaks to a lady as you do 
 to me is no lady herself!" 
 
 "To a lady? A lady's maid speaks in this way. The idea!" 
 
 "Don't 'lady's maid' me; nobody is my mistress. I won't 
 have it!" 
 
 "Good heavens!" 
 
 "I wouldn't have come — no — I wouldn't, if I had known!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "That you were such an ill-tempered, unjust woman!" 
 
 Possessed beyond the muse's painting, Miss Aldclyfife ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "A woman, am I! I'll teach you if I am a woman!" and 
 lifted her hand as if she would have liked to strike her com- 
 panion. This stung the maiden into absolute defiance. 
 
 "I dare you to touch me!" she cried. "Strike me if you dare, 
 madam ! I am not afraid of you — what do you mean by such 
 an action as that?" 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe was disconcerted at this unexpected show of 
 spirit, and ashamed of her unladylike impulse now it was put 
 into words. She sank back in the chair. "I was not going to 
 strike you. Go to your room — I beg you to go to your room," 
 she repeated in a husky whisper. 
 
 Cytlierea, red and panting, took up her candlestick and ad- 
 vanced to the table to get a light. Standing close to them the 
 rays from the candles struck sharply on her face. She usually 
 bore a much stronger likeness to her mother than to her father, 
 but now, looking with a grave, reckless, and angered expression 
 of countenance at the kindling wick as she held it slanting into 
 the other flame, her father's features were distinct in her. It 
 was the first time Miss Aldclyffe had seen her in a passionate 
 mood, and wearing that expression which was invariably its 
 concomitant. It was Miss Aldclyffe's turn to start now; and 
 the remark she made was an instance of that sudden change of 
 tone from high-flown invective to the pettiness of curiosity 
 which so often makes women's quarrels ridiculous. Even Miss 
 
TO DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 AldclyfFe's dignity had not sufficient power to postpone the 
 a!)sori)int,^ desire she now felt to settle the strange suspicion that 
 had entered her head. 
 
 "You spell your name the common way, G, R, E, Y, don't 
 you?" she said with assumed indifference. 
 
 "No," said Cytherea, poised on the side of her foot, and still 
 looking into the flame. 
 
 "Yes, surely? The name was spelled that way on your 
 boxes; I looked and saw it myself." 
 
 The enigma of Miss Aldclyffe's mistake was solved. "Oh, 
 was it?" said Cytherea. "Ah, I remember Mrs. Jackson, the 
 lodging-house keeper at Creston, labeled them. \\'e spell our 
 name G, R, A, Y, E." 
 
 "Wliat was your father's trade?" 
 
 Cytherea thouglit it would be useless to attempt to conceal 
 facts any longer. "Pie was not a trade," she said. "He was an 
 architect." 
 
 "The idea of your being an architect's daughter!'' 
 
 "There's nothing to offend you in that, I hope?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 "Why did you say 'the idea?' " 
 
 "Leave that alone. Did he ever visit in Gower street one 
 Christmas, many years ago? — but you would not know that." 
 
 "I have heard him say that Mr. Huntway. a curate some- 
 where in that part of London, and who died there, was an old 
 college friend of his." 
 
 "What is your Christian name?" 
 
 "Cytherea." 
 
 "No! And is it really? And you knew that face I showed 
 you? Yes, I see you did." Miss Alddyffe stopped, and closed 
 iier lips impassibly. She was a little agitated. 
 
 "Do you want me any longer?" said Cytherea. standing 
 candle in hand and looking quietly in Miss Aldclyffe's face. 
 
 "Well — no: no longer," said the lady lingeringly. 
 
 "With your permission, I will leave the house to-morrow 
 morning, madam." 
 
 "Ah!" Miss Aldclyffe had no notion of what she was saying. 
 
 "And I know you will be so good as not to intrude upon me 
 during the short remainder of my stay?" 
 
 Saying this Cytherea left the room before her companion 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 71 
 
 had answered. Miss Aldclyffe, then, had recognized her at last, 
 and had been curious about her name from the beginning. 
 
 The other members of the household had retired to rest. 
 As Cytherea went along the passage leading to her room her 
 dress rustled against the partition. A door on her left opened, 
 and Mrs. Morris looked out. 
 
 "I waited out of bed till you came up," she said, '"it being your 
 first night, in case you should be at a loss for anything. How 
 have you got on with Miss Aldclyffe?" 
 
 "Pretty well — though not so well as I could have wished." 
 
 "Has she been scolding?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "She's a very odd lady — 'tis all one way or the other with her. 
 She's not bad at heart, but unbearable in close quarters. Those 
 of us who don't have much to do with her personally stay on 
 for years and years." 
 
 "Has Miss AldclyfTe's family always been rich?" said Cy- 
 therea. 
 
 "Oh, no. The property, with the name, came from her 
 mother's uncle. Her family is a branch of the old Aldclyffe 
 family on the maternal side. Her mother married a Bradleigii 
 — a mere nobody at that time — and was on that account cut by 
 her relations. But very singularly the other branch of the fam- 
 ily died out one by one — three of them, and Miss Aldclyffe's 
 great-uncle then left all his property, including this estate, to 
 Captain Bradleigh and his wife, INIiss Aldclyffe's father and 
 mother, on condition that they took the old family name as 
 well. There's all about it in the 'Landed Gentry.' 'Tis a tiling 
 very often done." 
 
 "Oh, I see. Thank you. Well, now I am going. Good- 
 night." 
 
CHArXER \-I. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF TWELVE HOURS. 
 § I. Aui^us/ thr ninf/i. Or- /., /.-.... .''.■L,,-k a. in. 
 
 Cvtiicrca entered her bedroom, an-i titri:; lurself on the bed, 
 hewiklered l>v a whirl of thought. Only one subject was clear 
 in her mind, and it was that, in spite of family discoveries, that 
 day was to be the first and last of her exj)erience as a lady's 
 maid. Starvation itself should not compel her to hold such a 
 humiliating- post for another instant. "Ah," she thought, with 
 a sigh at the martyrdom of her last little fragment of self-con- 
 ceit, "Owen knows everything better than I." 
 
 She jumped up and began making ready for her departure 
 in the morning, the tears streaming down when she grieved 
 and wondered what practical matter on earth she could turn 
 her hand to next. All these preparations completed, she began 
 to undress, her mind unconsciously drifting away to the con- 
 tomi)lation of her late surprises. To look in the glass for an 
 instant at the reflection of her own magnificent resources in 
 lace and bosom, and to mark their attractiveness unadorned, 
 was perhaps but the natural action of a young woman who had 
 so lately been chidden while passing through the harassing ex- 
 perience of decorating an older beauty of Miss Aldclyffe's 
 temper. 
 
 But she directly checked her weakness by sympathizing re- 
 flections on the hidden troubles which must have thronged the 
 l^ast years of the solitary lady, to keep her, though s^^ rich ancl 
 courted, in a mood so repcHant and gloomy as that in which 
 Cytherea found her; and then the young girl marveled again 
 and again, as she had marveled before, at the strange con- 
 fluence of circumstances which had brought herself into con- 
 tact with the one woman in the world wliose history was so 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 73 
 
 romantically intertwined with her own. She almost began to 
 wish she were not obliged to go away and leave the lonely 
 woman to loneliness still. 
 
 In bed and in the dark, Miss Aldclyffe haunted her mind 
 more persistently than ever. Instead of sleeping, she called 
 up staring visions of the possible past of this queenly lady, her 
 mother's rival. Up the long vista of bygone years she saw, 
 behind all, the young girl's flirtation, little or much, with the 
 cousin, that seemed to have been nipped in the bud, or to 
 have terminated hastily in some way. Then the secret meet- 
 ings between IMiss Aldclyffe and the other woman at the little 
 inn at Hanmiersmith and other places; the commonplace 
 sobriquet she adopted; her swoon at some painful news, and 
 the very slight knowledge the elder female had of her partner 
 in mystery. Then, more than a )'ear afterward, the acquaint- 
 anceship of her own father with this his first love; the awaken- 
 ing of the passion, his acts of devotion, the unreasoning heat 
 of liis rapture, her tacit acceptance of it, and yet her uneasiness 
 under the delight. Then his declaration amid the evergreens; 
 the utter change produced in her manner thereby, seemingly the 
 result of a rigid determination; and the total concealment of 
 her reason by herself and her parents, whatever it was. Then 
 the lady's course dropped into darkness, and nothing more v.'as 
 visible till she was discovered here at Knapwater, nearly fifty 
 years old, still unmarried and still beautiful, but lonely, embit- 
 tered, and haughty. Cytherea imagined that her father's image 
 was still warmly cherished in Miss Aldclyffe's heart, and was 
 thankful that she herself had not been betrayed into announcing 
 that she knew many particulars of this page of her father's his- 
 tory, and the chief one, the lady's unaccountable renunciation 
 of him. It would have made her bearing toward the mistress 
 of the mansion more awkward, and would have been no benefit 
 to either. 
 
 Thus conjuring up the past, and theorizing on the present, 
 she lay restless, changing her posture from one side to the other 
 and back again. Finally, when courting sleep with all her art, 
 she heard a clock strike two. A minute later, and she fancied 
 she could distinguish a soft rustle in the passage outside her 
 room. 
 
 To bury her head in the sheets was her first impulse; tlien to 
 uncover it, raise herself on her elbow, and stretch her eves wide 
 
74 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 open in me darkness; her lips being parted with the intentness 
 of her listening. Whatever the noise was, it had ceased for the 
 time. 
 
 It began again, and came close to the door, lightly touciiing 
 the panels. Then there was another stillness; Cytherea made 
 a movement which caused a faint rustling of the bedclothes. 
 
 Before she had time to think another thouglit a light tap was 
 given. Cytherea breathed; the person outside was evidently 
 bent upon finding her awake, and the rustle she had made had 
 encouraged the hope. The maiden's physical condition shifted 
 from one i)ole to its opposite. The cold sweat of terror forsook 
 her, and modesty took the alarm. She became hot and red; 
 her door was not locked. 
 
 A distinct woman's whisper came to her through the key- 
 h.ole: "Cytherea." 
 
 Only one being in the house knew her Christian naine. aiid 
 that was Miss AldclyfTe. Cytherea stepped out of bed, went to 
 the door, and whispered back, "Yes?" 
 
 "Let me come in, darling." 
 
 The young woman paused in a conflict between judgement 
 and emotion. It was now mistress and maid no longer; woman 
 and woman only. Yes, she must let her come in, poor thing. 
 
 She got a light in an instant, opened the door, and raising 
 her eyes and the candle, saw Miss Aldclyffe standing outside in 
 her dressing-gown. 
 
 "Now you see that it is really myself, put out the light," said 
 the visitor. "I want to stay here with you, Cythie. I came to 
 ask you to come down into my bed, but it is snugger here. But 
 remember that you arc mistress in this room, antl that I have no 
 business here, and that you may send me awav if vou choose. 
 Shall I go?" 
 
 "Oh, no; you sha'n't, indeed, if you don't want to," said Cy- 
 therea generously. 
 
 The instant they were in bed Miss AldclyfFe freed herself 
 from the last remnant of restraint. She flung her anus round 
 the young girl, and pressed her gently to her heart. 
 
 "Now kiss me." she said. 
 
 Cytherea, upon the whole, was rather discomposed at this 
 change of treatment; and, discomposed or no, her passions 
 were not so impetuous as Miss AldclyfFe's. She could not bring 
 her soul to her lips for a moment, try how she would. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 75 
 
 "Come, kiss me," repeated Miss Aldclyfife. 
 
 Cytherea gave her a very small one, as soft in touch and in 
 sound as the bursting of a bubble. 
 
 "More earnestly than that — come." 
 
 She gave another, a little, but not much, more expressively. 
 
 "I don't deserv^e a more feeling one, I suppose," said Miss 
 Aldclyffe, with an emphasis of sad bitterness in her tone. "I 
 am an ill-tempered woman, you think; half out of my mind. 
 Well, perhaps I am; but I have had grief more than you can 
 think or dream of. But I can't help loving you — your name is 
 the same as mine — isn't it strange?" 
 
 Cytherea was inclined to say no, but remained silent. 
 
 "Now, don't you think I must love you?" continued the 
 other. 
 
 "Yes," said Cytherea absently. She was still thinking whether 
 duty to Owen and her father, which asked for silence on her 
 knowledge of her father's unfortunate love, or duty to the 
 woman embracing her, which seemed to ask for confidence, 
 ought to predominate. Here was a solution. She would wait 
 till Miss Aldclyfife referred to her acquaintanceship and attach- 
 ment to Cytherea's father in past times, then she would tell her 
 all she knew; that would be honor. 
 
 "Why can't you kiss me as I can kiss you? Why can't you?" 
 She impressed upon Cytherea's lips a warm, motherly salute, 
 given as if in the outburst of strong feeling, long checked, and 
 yearning for something to love and be loved by in return. 
 
 "Do you think badly of me for my behavior this evening, 
 child? I don't know why I am so foolish as to speak to you in 
 this way. I am a very fool, I believe. Yes. How old are you?" 
 
 "Eighteen." 
 
 "Eighteen .... Well, why don't you ask me how old 
 I am?" 
 
 "Because I don't want to know." 
 
 "Never mind if you don't. I am forty-six; and it gives 
 me greater pleasure to tell you this than it does you to listen. 
 I have not told my age truly for the last twenty years till 
 now." 
 
 "Why haven't you?" 
 
 "I have met deceit by deceit, till I am weary of it — weary, 
 weary — and I long to be what I shall never be again — artless 
 and innocent, like you. But I suppose that you, too, will prove 
 
76 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 to he not worth a thought, as every new friend docs on more 
 intimate knowledg^c. Come, why don't you talk to me, child? 
 Have you said your prayers?" 
 
 "Yes — no! I forgot them to-night." 
 
 "I suppose vou sav them evt-rv night a^ a niK""' 
 Ves." 
 
 Why do you do that?" 
 
 "iJecause I always have, and it would seein strange if I wero 
 not to. Do you?" 
 
 "I? A wicked old sinner like me! No, I never do. I have 
 thought all such matters humbug for years — thought so so long 
 that I should he glad to think otherwise from very weariness; 
 and yet. such is the code of the polite world, that I subscribe 
 regularly to missionary societies and others of the sort. . . . 
 Well, say your prayers, dear — you won't omit them now you 
 recollect it, I should like to hear you very much. Will you?" 
 
 "It seems hardly — " 
 
 "It would seem so like old times to me — when I was young, 
 and nearer — far nearer Heaven than 1 am now. Do, swert 
 one." 
 
 Cytherea was embarrassed : and her embarrassment arose 
 from the following conjuncture of affairs: Since she had loved 
 Edward Springrove. she had linked his name with her brother 
 Owen's in her nightly supplications to the Almighty. She 
 wished to keep her love for him a secret, and above all a secret 
 from a woman like Miss AldclyfFe; yet her conscience antl the 
 honesty of her love would not for an instant allow her to think 
 of omitting his dear name, and so endanger the efficacy of all 
 her previous prayers for his success by an imworthy shame now ; 
 it would be wicked of her. she thought, and a grievous wrong to 
 him. Under any worldly circumstances slie miglit have thought 
 the position justified a little finesse, and have ski]ipo<l him for 
 once; but jirayer was too solemn a thing for such trilling. 
 
 "I would rather not say them," she murmured first. It struck 
 her then that this declining altogether was the same cowardice 
 in another dress, and was delivering her poor Edward over to 
 Satan just as unceremoniously as before. "Yes; I will say my 
 prayers, and you shall hear me." she added firmly. 
 
 She turned her face to the pillow and repeated in low, soft 
 tones the simple words she had used from childhood on such 
 occasions. Owen's name was mentioned without falterin "-. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 77 
 
 but in the other case maidenly shyness was too strong even 
 for reUg-ion, and that when supported by excellent intentions. 
 At the name of Edward she stammered, and her voice sank to 
 the faintest whisper in spite of her. 
 
 "Thank you, dearest," said Miss Aldclyf^e. ''I have prayed, 
 too, 1 verily believe. You are a good girl, I think." Then tlie 
 expected question came. 
 
 ■"Bless Owen,' and who, did you say?" 
 
 There was no help for it now, and out it cam.e. "Owen and 
 Edward," said Cytherea. 
 
 "Who are Owen and Edward?" 
 
 "Owen is my brother, madam," faltered the maid. 
 
 "Ah, I remember. Who is Edward?" 
 
 A siletice. 
 
 "Your brother, .00?" contmued Miss Aldclyffe. 
 
 "No." 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe reflected a moment. "Don't you want to tell 
 me who Edward is?" she said at last, in a tone of meaning. 
 
 "I don't mind telling; only . . . ." 
 
 "You would rather not, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe shifted her ground. "Were you ever in love?" 
 she inquired suddenly. 
 
 Cytherea was surprised to hear how quickly the voice had 
 altered from tenderness to harshness, vexation, and disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 "Yes — I think I was — once," she murmured. 
 
 "Aha! And were you ever kissed by a man?" 
 
 A pause. 
 
 "Well, were you?" said Miss Aldclyffe, rather sharply. 
 
 "Don't press me to tell — I can't — indeed, I won't, madam." 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe removed her arms from Cytherea's neck. 
 " 'Tis now with you as it is always with all girls," she said, in 
 jealous and gloomy accents. "You are not, after all, the inno- 
 cent I took you for. No, no." She then changed her tone with 
 fitful rapidity. "Cytherea, try to love me more than you love 
 him — do. I love you better than any man can. Do, Cythie; 
 don't let any man stand between us. Oh, I can't bear that!" 
 She clasped Cytherea's neck again. 
 
 "I must love him now I have begun," replied the other. 
 
 "Must — yes — must," said the elder lady, reproachfully. 
 e 
 
78 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 'Yes, women arc all alike. I thought I had at last found an 
 artless woman who had not heen sullied by a man's lips, and 
 wh(» had not practiced or been practiced upon by the arts which 
 ruin all the truth and sweetness and p^O(jdness in us. Find a 
 j^irl, if you can, whose mouth and ears have not been made a 
 re.t,nilar hij^hway of by some man or another! Leave the atl- 
 mittedly notorious spots — the drawing-rooms of society — and 
 look in the villages — leave the villages and search in the schools 
 — and you can hardly find a girl whose heart has not been had — 
 is not an old thing half worn out by some He or another. If 
 men only knew the staleness of the freshest of us! that nine 
 times out of ten the 'first love' they think they are winning from 
 a woman is l)ut the hulk of an old wrecked affection, fitted with 
 new sails and re-used. Oh, Cytherea, can it be that you, too, are 
 like the rest?" 
 
 "No, no, no," urged Cytherea, awed by the storm she had 
 raised in the impetuous woman's mind. "He only kissed me 
 once — twice, I mean." 
 
 "He might have a thousand times if he had cared to, there's 
 no doubt about that, whoever his lordship is. You are as bad 
 as I — we are all alike; and I — an old fool — have been sipping 
 at your mouth as if it were honey, because I fancied no wasting 
 lover knew the spot. But a miimte ago, and you seemed to me 
 like a fresh spring meadow — now you seem a dusty highway." 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" Cytherea was not weak enough to shed tears 
 except on extraordinary occasions, but she was fain to begin 
 sobbing now. She wished Miss Aldclyffe would go to her own 
 room and leave her and her treasured dreams alone. This 
 vehement, imperious affection was in one sense soothing, but 
 yet it was not of the kind that Cytherea's instincts desired. 
 Though it was generous, it seemed somewhat too rank, sensu- 
 ous, and capricious for endurance. 
 
 "Well." said the lady in continuation, "who is he?" 
 
 Her companion was desperately determined not to tell his 
 name; she too nuich feared a taunt when Miss Aldclyffe's fiery 
 mood again ruled her tongue. 
 
 "Won't you tell me — not tell me after all the aflfection I have 
 shown?" 
 
 "I will, perhaps, another day." 
 
 "Did you wear a hat and white feather in Crcston for the 
 week or two previous to your coming here?" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 79 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I have seen you and your sweetheart at a distance. He 
 rowed you round the bay with your brother." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And without your brother — fie ! There, there, don't let that 
 little heart beat itself to death ; throb, throi3 : it shakes the bed, 
 you silly thing. I didn't mean there was any harm in going 
 alone with him. I only saw you from the esplanade, in common 
 with the rest of the people. I often run down to Creston. He 
 was a very good figure; now who was he?" 
 
 "I — I won't tell, madam — I cannot, indeed!" 
 
 "Won't tell — very well, don't. You are very foolish to treasure 
 up his name and image as you do. Why, he has had loves be- 
 fore you, trust him for that, whoever he is, and you are but a 
 temporary link in a long chain of others like you, who only 
 have your little day as they have had theirs." 
 
 " 'Tisn't true! 'tisn't true, 'tisn't true!" cried Cytherea in agony 
 of torture. "He has never loved anybody else, I know — I am 
 sure he hasn't." 
 
 Aliss Aldclyfife was as jealous as any man could have been. 
 She continued : 
 
 "He sees a beautiful face, and thinks he will never forget it, 
 but in a few weeks the feeling passes ofif, and he wonders how- 
 he could have cared for anybody so absurdly much." 
 
 "No, no, he doesn't. What does he do when he has thought 
 that — come, tell me — tell me!" 
 
 "You are as hot as fire, and the throbbing of your heart 
 makes me nervous. I can't tell you if you get in that flustered 
 state." 
 
 "Do, do tell — oh, it makes me so miserable! but tell, come, 
 tell!" 
 
 "Ah, the tables are turned now, dear!" she exclaimed in a 
 tone which mingled pity with derision: 
 
 " 'Love's passions shall rock thee 
 
 As the storms rock the ravens on high, 
 Bright reason will mock thee 
 Like the sun from a wintry sky.' " 
 
 "What does he do next? Why, this is what he does next: 
 ruminates on what he has heard of woman's romantic impulses, 
 
so DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 and how easily men torture them when they have pvcn way 
 \n those fecHngfs. and have resigned everything: for their hero. 
 It may be that though he loves you heartily now — that is, as 
 heartily as a man ean — and you love him in return, your loves 
 may be impracticable and hopeless, and you may be separated 
 forever. You, as the weary, weary years pass by. will fade and 
 fade — bright eyes will fade — and you will perhaps then die 
 early — true to him to your latest breath, and believing him to be 
 true to the latest breath also; while he, in some gay and busy 
 spot far away from your last (|uiet nook, will have married some 
 dashing lady, anil not purely oblivious of you, will long have 
 ceased to regret you — will chat about you, as you were in long 
 past years — will say, *Ah, little Cytherea used to tie her hair 
 like that — poor inni:)ccnt, trusting thing! it was a pleasant, 
 useless, idle dream — that dream of mine for the maid with the 
 bright eyes and simple, silly heart: but I was a foolish lad at 
 that time.' Then he will tell the tale of all your little Wills and 
 W'on'ts, and particular ways, and as he speaks, turn to his wife 
 with a placid smile." 
 
 "It is not true! He can't, he c — can't be s — so cruel — and 
 you are cruel to me — you are. you are!" She was at last driven 
 to desperation ; her natural common-sense and shrewdness had 
 seen all through the piece how imaginary her emotions were — 
 she felt herself to be weak and foolish in permitting them to 
 rise; but even then she could not control them; be agonized she 
 must. She was only eighteen, and the long day's labor, her 
 weariness, her excitement, had completely unnerved her and 
 worn her out; she was bent hither and thither by this tyrannical 
 working upon her imagination, as a young rush in the wind. 
 She wept bitterly. 
 
 "And now think how much I like you," resumed Miss Ald- 
 clyfi'e, when Cytherea grew calmer. "I shall never forget you 
 for anybody else, as men do — never. I will be exactly as a 
 mother to you. Now will you promise to live with me always, 
 and always be taken care of, and never deserted?" 
 
 "I can not. I will not be anybody's maid for another day on 
 any consideration." 
 
 "No, no, no. You shan't be a lady's maid. You shall be my 
 companion. I will get another maid." 
 
 Companion — that was a new idea. Cytherea could not resist 
 the evidently heartfelt desire of the strange-tempered woman 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 81 
 
 for her presence. But she could not trust to the moment's im- 
 pulse. 
 
 "I will stay, I think. But do not ask for a final answer to- 
 night." 
 
 "Never mind now, then. Put your hair round your mamma's 
 neck and give me one good long kiss, and I won't talk any 
 more in that way about your lover. After all, some young men 
 are not so fickle as others; but even if he's the ficklest, there 
 is consolation. The love of an inconstant man is ten times more 
 ardent than that of a faithful man — that is, while it lasts." 
 
 Cytherea did as she was told, to escape the punishment of 
 further talk; flung the twining tresses of her long, rich hair 
 over Miss Aldclyfife's shoulders as directed, and the two ceased 
 conversing, making themselves up for sleep. Miss Aldclyffe 
 seemed to give herself over to a luxurious sense of content and 
 quiet, as if the maiden at her side afforded her a protection 
 against dangers which had menaced her for a year; she was 
 soon sleeping calmly. 
 
 § 2. Two to five a. m. 
 
 With Cytherea it was otherwise. Unused to the place and 
 circumstances, she continued wakeful, ill at ease, and mentally 
 distressed. She withdrew herself from her companion's em- 
 brace, turned to the other side, and endeavored to relieve her 
 busy brain by looking at the window-blind, and noticing the 
 light of the rising moon — now in its last quarter — creep round 
 upon it : it was the light of an old waning moon which had but 
 a few days longer to five. 
 
 The sight led her to think again of what had happened under 
 the rays of the same month's moon a little before its full, the 
 delicious evening scene with Edward; the kiss, and the short- 
 ness of those happy moments — maiden imagination bringing 
 about the apotheosis of a status quo which had had several un- 
 pleasantnesses in its earthly reality. 
 
 But sounds were in the ascendant that night. Her ears be- 
 came aware of a strange and gloomy murmur. 
 
 She recognized it: it was the gushing of the waterfall, faint 
 and low, brought from its source to the unwonted distance of 
 the house by a faint breeze which made it distinct and recog- 
 nizable by reason of the utter absence of all disturbing sounds. 
 
82 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 The groom's inclaticlioly representation lent to the sound a 
 more (Hsnial effect than it would have had of its own nature. She 
 began to fancy what the waterfall must he like at that hour, 
 under the trees in the ghostly moonlight. Ulack at the head, 
 anil over the surface of the deep cold hole into which it fell; 
 white and frothy at the fall; black and white, like a pall and its 
 border; sad everywhere. 
 
 She was in the mood for sounds of cvcrv- kind now, and 
 strained her cars to catch the faintest, in wayward enmity to her 
 <juiet of mind. Another soon came. 
 
 The second was (|uite different from the first — a kind of inter- 
 mittent whistle it seemed primarily: no, a creak, a metallic 
 croak, ever and anon, like a plow, or a rusty wheel-barrow, or 
 at least a wheel of some kind. Yes, it was a wheel — the water- 
 wheel in the shrubbery by the old manor-house, which the 
 coachman had said would drive him mad. 
 
 She determined not to think any more of these gloomy things; 
 but now that she had once noticed the sound there was no seal- 
 ing her ears to it. She could not help timing its creaks and 
 putting on a dread expectancy just before the end of each half- 
 minute that brought them. To imagine the inside of the engine- 
 house, whence these noises proceeded, was now a necessity. 
 Xo %\nndow. but crevices in the door, through which, probably, 
 the moonbeams streamed in the most attemiated and skeleton- 
 like rays, striking sharply upon portions of wet rusty cranks 
 and chains; a glistening wheel, turning incessantly, laboring 
 in the dark like a captive star\'ing in a dungeon; and instead of 
 a floor below, gurgling water, which on account of the darkness 
 could only be heard ; water which labored up dark pipes almost 
 to where she lay. 
 
 She shivered. Now she was determined to go to sleep ; there 
 could be nothing else left to be heard or to imagine — it was 
 lii^rrid that her imagination should be so restless. Vet just for 
 an instant before going to sleep she would think this — suppose 
 amtluT S(nnid should come — just suppose it should! Before the 
 tlKHight had well passed through her brain a third sound came. 
 
 The third was a very soft gurgle or rattle — of a strange and 
 abnormal kind — yet a sound she had heard before at some past 
 period of her life — when, she could not recollect. To make it 
 the more disturbing, it seemed to be almost close to her — either 
 close outside the window, or close under the floor, or close 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 83 
 
 above the ceiling. The accidental fact of its coming so inimc- 
 diately upon the heels of her supposition told so powerfully 
 upon her excited nerves that she jumped up in the bed. The 
 same instant, a little dog in some room near, having probably 
 heard the same noise, set up a low whine. The watch-dog in 
 the yard, hearing the moan of his associate, began to howl loudly 
 and distinctly. His melancholy notes were taken up directly 
 afterward by the dogs in the kennel a long way oft', in every 
 variety of wail. 
 
 One logical thought alone was able to enter her flurried 
 brain. Tlie little dog that began the whining must have heard 
 the other two sounds even better tlian herself. He had taken 
 no notice of them, but he had taken notice of the third. The 
 third, then, was an unusual sound. 
 
 It was not like water, it was not like wind, it was not the 
 night-jar, it was not a clock, nor a rat, nor a person snoring. 
 
 She crept under the clothes, and flung her arms tightly round 
 I\Iiss Aldclyfi'e, as if for protection. Cytherea perceived that 
 the lady's late peaceful warmth had given place to a sweat. At 
 the maiden's touch, Miss Aldclyffe awoke with a low scream. 
 
 She remembered her position instantly. "Oh, such a ter- 
 rible dream!" she cried, in a hurried whisper, holding to 
 Cytherea in her turn; "and your touch was the end of it. It 
 was dreadful. Time, with his wings, hour-glass, and scythe, 
 coming nearer and nearer to me — grinning and mocking: then 
 
 he seized me, took a piece of me only But I can't 
 
 tell you, I can't bear to think if it. How those dogs howl! 
 People say it means death." 
 
 The return of Miss Aldclyffe to consciousness was sufficient 
 to dispel the wild fancies which the loneliness of the night had 
 woven in Cythcrea's mind. She dismissed the third noise as 
 something which in all likelihood could easily be explained, 
 if trouble were taken to inquire into it; large houses had all 
 kinds of strange sounds floating about them. She was 
 ashamed to tell Miss Aldclyffe her terrors. 
 
 A silence of five minutes. 
 
 "Are you asleep?" said Miss Aldclyffe. 
 
 "No," said Cytherea in a long-drawn whisper. 
 
 "How those dogs howl, don't they?" 
 
 "Yes. A little dog in the house began it." 
 
84 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Ah, yes: that was Totsy. He sleeps on the mat outside my 
 father's bedroom door. A nervous creature." 
 
 There was a silent interval of nearly half an hour. A clock 
 on the landin*^: struck three. 
 
 "Are you asleep, Miss AldclyfFe?" whispered Cytherea. 
 
 "Xo," replied Aliss Aldclyffe. "How wretched it is not to 
 be able to sleep, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Cytherea, like a docile child. 
 
 Another hour passed, and the clock struck four. Miss Ald- 
 clyfTe was still awake. 
 
 "Cytherea," she said, very softly. 
 
 Cytherea made no answer. She was slecj)ing soundly. 
 
 Tlie first glimmer of dav.ii was now visible. Miss AldclyfTe 
 arose, put on her dressing-robe, and went softly downstairs t<i 
 her own room. 
 
 "I have not told her who I am after all, or found out the 
 particulars of Ambrose's histor)-," she nuirnuired. "But her 
 being in love alters everything." 
 
 § 3. Ha //-past seven to ten 0^ clock a. in. 
 
 Cytherea awoke quiet in mind and refreshed. A conclusion 
 to remain at Knapwater was already in possession of her. 
 
 Finding Miss Aldclyffe gone, she dressed herself and sat 
 down at the window to write an answer to Edward's letter, and 
 an account of her arrival at Knapwater to Owen. The dismal 
 and heart-breaking pictures that Miss Aldclyfte had placed 
 before her the preceding evening, the later terrors of the night, 
 were now but as shadow of shadows, and she smiled in derision 
 at her own excitability. 
 
 r.ut writing Edward's letter was the great consoler, the 
 cftect of each word upon him being enacted in her own face 
 ns she wrote it. She felt how nuich she would like to share 
 his tronblc — how well she could endure poverty with him — 
 and wonrlercd what his trouble was. F-ut all would be ex- 
 |)lained at last, she knew. 
 
 At the appointed time she went to TSIiss Aldclyffe's room, 
 intending, with the contradirloriness conmion in people, t<> 
 pt-rform with pleasure, as a work of supererogation, what as a 
 duty was simnlv intolerable. 
 
 Miss AldclyfTe was already out of bed. The bright pcnetrat- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 85 
 
 ing light of morning made a vast difference in the elder lady's 
 beliavior to her dependent; the day, which had restored 
 Cytherea's judgment, had effected the same for Miss Aldclyffe. 
 Though practical reasons forbade her regretting that she had 
 secured such a companionable creature to read, talk, or play 
 to her whenever her whim required, she was inwardly vexed at 
 the extent to which she had indulged in the womanly luxury 
 of making confidences and giving way to emotions. Few 
 would have supposed that the calm lady sitting so aristocratic- 
 ally at the toilet-table, seeming scarcely conscious of Cytherea's 
 presence in the room, even when greeting her, was the passion- 
 ate creature who had asked for kisses a few hours before. 
 
 It is both painful and satisfactory to think how often these 
 antitheses are to be observed in the individual most open to our 
 observation — ourselves. We pass the evening with faces lit 
 up by some flaring illumination or other; we get up the next 
 morning — the fiery jets have all gone out, and nothing con- 
 fronts us but a few crinkled pipes and sooty wirework, hardly 
 recalling the outline of the blazing picture that arrested our 
 eyes before bedtime. 
 
 Emotions would be half-starved if there were no candle-light. 
 Probably nine-tenths of the gushing letters of indiscreet con- 
 fidences are written after nine or ten o'clock in the evening, 
 and sent off before day returns to leer invidiously upon them. 
 Few that remain open to catch our glance as we rise in the 
 morning survive the rigid criticism of dressing-time. 
 
 The subject uppermost in the minds of the two women who 
 had thus cooled from their fires, were not the visionary ones of 
 the later hours, but the hard facts of their earlier conversation. 
 After a remark that Cyth.erea need not assist her in dressing 
 unless she wished to. Miss Aldclyffe said, abruptly: 
 
 "I can tell that young man's name." She looked keenly at 
 Cytherea. "It is Edv.^ard Springrove, my tenant's son." 
 
 The inundation of color upon the younger lady at hearing 
 a name which to her was a world handled as if it were only an 
 atom, told Miss Aldclyffe that she had divined the truth at last. 
 
 "Ah — it is he, is it?" she continued. "Well, I wanted to 
 know for practical reasons. His example shows that I was not 
 so far wrong in my estimate of men after all, though I only 
 generalized, and had no thought of him," This was perfectly 
 true. 
 
■•', DESPERATi: REMEDIES. 
 
 'What do you mean?" said Cytherea, visibly alarmed. 
 
 "Mean? Why, that all the world knows him to be engaged 
 to be married, and that the wediling is soon to take place." 
 She made the remark bluntly and superciliously as if to obtain 
 absolution at the hands of her family pride for the weak con- 
 fidences of the night. 
 
 I>ut even the frigidity of Miss AldclyfFe's mood was over- 
 come by the look of sick and blank despair which the carelessly 
 uttered words had produced upon Cytherea's face. She sank 
 back into a chair, and buried her face in her hands. 
 
 "Don't be foolish," said Miss AldclyfTe. "Come, make the 
 best of it. I can not upset the fact I have told you of, unfortu- 
 nately. lUit I believe the match can be broken oflf." 
 
 "Oh, no, no." 
 
 "Nonsense. I liked him much as a youth, and I like him 
 now. I'll help you to captivate and chain him down. I have 
 got over my absurd feeling of last night in not wanting you ever 
 to go away from me — of course I could not expect such a thing 
 as that. There, now, I have said I'll help you, and that's 
 enough. He's tired of his first sweetheart now that he's been 
 away from home for awhile. The love which no outer attack 
 can frighten away quails before its idol's own homely ways; 
 'tis always so. . . . Come, finish what you are doing if 
 you are going to, and don't be a little goose about such a trump- 
 ery affair as that." 
 
 "Who — is he engaged to?" Cytherea inquired by a move- 
 ment of her lips, but no sound of her voice. But Miss AldclyfTe 
 did not answer. It mattered not. Cytherea thought. Another 
 woman — that was enough for her; curiosity was stunned. 
 
 She applied herself to the work of dressing, scarcely knowing 
 how. Miss AldclyfTe went on: 
 
 "You were too easily won. I'd have made him or anybody 
 else speak out before he should have kissed my face for his 
 ])leasure. But you are one of those prccipitantly fotid things 
 who are yearning to throw away their hearts upon the first 
 worthless fellow who says good-morning. In the first place, 
 you shouldn't have loved him so ([uickly; in the next, if you 
 must have loved him ofT-hand, you should have concealed 
 it. It tickled his vanity: 'By Jove, that girl's in love with mc 
 already!' he thought." 
 
 To hasten awav at the end of the toilet, to tell Mrs. Morris — 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 87 
 
 who stood waiting" in a little room prepared for her, with tea 
 poured out, bread and butter cut into diaphanous slices, and 
 eggs arranged — that she wanted no breakfast ; then to shut her- 
 self alone in her bedroom was her only thought. She was 
 followed thither by the well-intentioned matron with a cup of 
 tea and one piece of bread and butter on a tray, cheerfully 
 insisting that she should eat it. 
 
 To those who grieve, innocent cheerfulness seems heartless 
 levity. "No, thank you, Mrs. Morris," she said, keeping the 
 door closed. Despite the incivility of the action, Cytherea 
 could not bear to let a pleasant person see her face then. 
 
 Immediate revocation — even if revocation would be more 
 effective by postponement — is the impulse of young wounded 
 natures. Cytherea went' to her blotting-book, took out the 
 long letter so carefully written, so full of gushing remarks and 
 tender hints, and sealed up so neatly with a little seal bearing 
 "Good Faith" as its motto, tore the missive into fifty pieces, 
 and threw them into the grate. It was then the bitterest of 
 anguishes to look upon some of the words she had so lovingly 
 written, and see them existing only in mutilated forms without 
 meaning — to feel that his eye would never read them, nobody 
 ever know how ardently she had penned them. 
 
 Pity for one's self for being wasted is mostly present in these 
 moods of abnegation. 
 
 The meaning of all his allusions, his abruptness in telling her 
 of his love; his constraint at first, then his desperate manner of 
 speaking, was clear. They must have been the last flickering 
 of a conscience not quite dead to all sense of perfidiousness and 
 fickleness. Now he had gone to London: she would be dis- 
 missed from his memory, in the same way as Miss Aldclyffe 
 had said. And here she was in Edward's own parish, reminded 
 continually of him by what she saw and heard. The landscape, 
 yesterday so much and so bright to her, was now but as the 
 banquet-hall deserted — all gone but herself. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe had wormed her secret out of her, and would 
 now be continually mocking her for her trusting simplicity in 
 believing him. It was altogether unbearable; she would not 
 stay there. 
 
 She went downstairs, and found that Miss Aldclyffe had gone 
 into her breakfast-room, but that Captain Aldclyffe, who rose 
 later, with increasing infirmities, had not yet made his appear- 
 
88 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 ance. Cythcrca entered. Miss Aklclyffe was looking out of 
 the window, watching a trail of white smoke along the distant 
 landscape — signifying a passing train. At Cytherea's entry she 
 turned and luokeil inquiry. 
 
 "I must tell Nou now," began Cvtherea. in a trenudous voice. 
 
 "Well, what?" Miss AldclyfTe said. 
 
 "I am not going to stay with you. I must g3 away — a very 
 long way. I am very sorry, but indeed I can't remain!" 
 
 "Pooh! What shall we hear next?" Miss AldclyfTe surveyed 
 Cytherea's face with leisurely criticism. "You are breaking 
 your heart again aI)out that worthless young Springrove. 1 
 knew how it would be. It is as Hallam says of Juliet — what 
 little reason you may have possessed originally has all been 
 whirled away by this love. I sha'n't take this notice, mind." 
 
 "Do let me go." 
 
 Miss AldclyfTe took her new pet's hand, and said with sever- 
 ity, "As to hindering you, if you arc determined to go, of course 
 that's absurd. But you are not now in a state of mind fit for 
 deciding upon any such proceeding, and I shall not listen to 
 what you have to say. Now, Cythie, come with me; we'll let 
 this volcano burst and spend itself, and after that we'll see what 
 had better be done." She took Cytherea into her workroom, 
 opened a drawer, and drew forth a roll of linen. 
 
 "This is some embroidery I began one day, and now I should 
 like it finished." 
 
 She then preceded the maiden upstairs to Cytherea's own 
 room. "There," she said, "now sit down here, go on with this 
 work, and remember one thing — that you are not to leave the 
 room on any pretext whatever for two hours, unless I send for 
 you — I insist kindly, dear. While you stitch — you are to 
 stitch, recollect, and not go mooning out of the window — 
 think over the wiiole matter, and get cooled; don't let the 
 foolisii love alTair prevent you thinking as a woman of the 
 world. If at the end of that time you still say you must leave 
 me, you may. I will have no more to say in the matter. 
 Come, sit down, and promise to sit here the time I name." 
 
 To hearts in a despairing mood, compulsion seems a relief; 
 and docility was at all times natural to Cytherea. She prom- 
 ised, and sat down. Miss AldclyfTe shut the door upon her 
 and retreated. 
 
 She sewed. stopi)ed to think, shed a tear or two, recollected 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 89 
 
 the articles of the treaty, and sewed again; and at length fell 
 into a reverie which took no account whatever of the lapse of 
 time. 
 
 § 4. Ten to twelve o^elock a. iu. 
 
 A quarter of an hour might have passed when her thoughts 
 became attracted from the past to the present by unwonted 
 movements downstairs. She opened the door and listened. 
 
 There was hurrying along passages, opening and shutting of 
 doors, trampling in the stable-yard. She went across into 
 another bedroom from which a view of the stable-yard could be 
 obtained, and arrived there just in time to see the figure of the 
 man who had driven her from the station vanishing down tlie 
 coach-road on a black horse — galloping at the top of the 
 animal's speed. 
 
 Anodier man went in the direction of the village. 
 
 Whatever had occurred, it did not seem to be her duty to 
 inquire or meddle with it, stranger and dependent as she was, 
 unless she were requested to, especially after Miss Aldclyffe's 
 strict charge to her. She sat down again, determined to let no 
 idle curiosity influence her movements. 
 
 Her window commanded the front of the house; and the next 
 thing she saw was a clergyman walk up and enter the door. 
 
 All was silent again till, a long time after the first man had 
 left, he returned again on the same horse, now matted with 
 sweat and trotting behind a carriage in which sat an elderly 
 gentleman driven by a lad in livery. These came to the house, 
 entered, and all was again the same as before. 
 
 The whole house — master, mistress, and servants — appeared 
 to have forgotten the very existence of such a being as 
 Cytherea. She almost wished she had not vowed to have no 
 idle curiosity. 
 
 Half an hour later, the carriage drove off with the elderly 
 gcndeman, and two or three messengers left the house, speeding 
 in various directions. Rustics in smock-frocks began to hang- 
 about the road opposite the house, or lean against trees, looking 
 idly at the windows and chimneys. 
 
 A tap came to Cytherea's door. She opened it to a young 
 maid-f.ervant. 
 
 "Miss Aldclyffe wishes to see you, ma'am." Cytherea has- 
 tened down. 
 
90 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Mis? AlclclyfTc was staiulinp^ on the hcarth-ruj^, her elbow on 
 the mantel, her hand to her temples, her eyes on the ground; 
 perfectly calm, but very pale. 
 
 "Cytherea," she said, m a whisper, "come here." 
 
 Cytherea went close. 
 
 "Somethinjjf very serious has taken i>lace." she said ap^ain, 
 and then paused, with a tremulous movement of her UKJUth. 
 
 "Yes," said Cytherea. 
 
 "My father — he was found dead in his bed this morning." 
 
 '"Dead!" echoed the younger woman. It seemed impossible 
 that the announcement could be true: that knowledge of so 
 great a fact could be contained in a statement so small. 
 
 "Yes, dead," murnnired Miss AldclyfTe solemnly. "He 
 died alone, though within a few feet of me. Tlie room we slept 
 in is exactly over his own." 
 
 Cytherea said, hurriedly. "Do they know at what hour?" 
 
 "The doctor says it must have been between two and three 
 o'clock this morning." 
 
 "Then I heard him!" 
 
 "Heard him?" 
 
 "Heard him die!" 
 
 "You heard him die? \Vhat did you hear?" 
 
 "A sound I had heard once before in my life — at the death- 
 bed of my mother. I could not identify it — though I recog- 
 nized it. Then the dog howled: you remarked it. I did not 
 think it worth while to tell you what I had heard a little earlier. " 
 She looked agonized. 
 
 "It would liave been useless," said Miss AldclyfFe. "All was 
 over by that time." She addressed herself as much as Cytherea 
 when she continued. "Is it a Providence who sent vou here at 
 this juncture that I might not be left entirely alone?" 
 
 Till this instant Miss AldclyfFe had forgotten the reason of 
 Cytherea's seclusion in her own room. So had Cytherea her- 
 self. The fact now recurred to both in one m(-»ment. 
 
 "Do you still wish to go?" said Miss .MdclyfTe anxiously. 
 
 "I don't want to go now," Cytherea had remarked simul- 
 taneously with the otlier's question. She was pondering on the 
 strange likeness which Miss AldclyfTe's bereavement bore to her 
 own: it had the appearance of being still another call to her 
 not to forsake this woman so linked to her life, for the sake of 
 anv trivial vexation. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 91 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe held her ahiiost as a lover would have held 
 her and said musingly: 
 
 "We get more and more into one groove. I now am left 
 fatherless and motherless as you were." Other ties lay behind 
 in her thoughts, but she did not mention them. 
 
 "You loved your father, Cytherea, and wept for him?" 
 
 "Yes; I did. Poor papa!" 
 
 "I was always at variance with mine, and can't weep for him 
 now. But you must stay here always and make a better woman 
 of me." 
 
 The compact was thus sealed, and Cytherea, in spite of the 
 failure of her advertisements, was installed as a veritable com- 
 panion. And, once more in the history of human endeavor, 
 a position which it was impossible to reach by any direct at- 
 tempt, was come to by the seeker's swerving from the path, and 
 regarding the original object as one of secondary importance. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE EVKNTS OF EIGHTEEN DAYS. 
 § 1. August iJic scviiitcetith. 
 
 Tlie time of the day was four o'cI)ck in the afternoon. The 
 place was the lady's study or boudoir, Knapwater House. The 
 person was Miss AldclyfFc sitting there alone, clothed in deep 
 mourning. 
 
 The funeral of the old captain had taken place and his will 
 had been read. It was very concise, and had been executed 
 about five years previous to his death. It was attested by his 
 solicitors, Messrs. Xyttleton and Tayling, of Lincoln's-Inn- 
 I'ields. The whole of his estate, real and personal, was be- 
 (pieathed to his daughter Cytherea, for her sole and absolute 
 use, subject only to the payment of a legacy to the rector, their 
 relative, and a few small amounts to the servants. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe had not chosen the easiest chair of her 
 boudoir to sit in, or even a chair of ordinan»- comfort; but an 
 ur.com fortable, high, narrow-backed, oak framed and seated 
 chair, which was allowed to remain in the room only on the 
 ground of being a companion in artistic quaintness to an old 
 coffer beside it, and was never used except to stand in to reach 
 for a book from the highest row of shelves. But she had sat 
 erect in this chair for more than an hour, for the reason that 
 she was utterly unconscious of what her actions and bodily 
 feelings were. The chair had stood nearest her path on enter- 
 ing the room, and she had gone to it in a dream. 
 
 She sat in the attitude which denotes unflagging, intense, 
 concentrated thought — as if she were cast in bronze. Her 
 feet were together, her body bent a little forward, and quite 
 imsup])orted by the back of the chair; her hands on her knees, 
 her eyes fixed intently on the corner of a footstool. 
 
 At last she moved and tapped her lingers upon the table at 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 93 
 
 her side. Her pent-up ideas had finally found some channel to 
 advance in. Motions became more and more frequent as she 
 labored to carry farther and farther the problem which occupied 
 her brain. She sat back and drew a long breath: she sat side- 
 ways and leaned her forehead upon her hand. Later still she 
 arose, walked up and down the room — at first abstractedly, 
 with her features as firmly set as ever; but by degrees her brow 
 relaxed, her footsteps became lighter and more leisurely; her 
 head rode gracefully and was no longer bowed. She plumed 
 herself like a swan after exertion. 
 
 *'Yes," she said aloud. "To get him here without letting him 
 know that I have any other object than that of getting a useful 
 man — that's the difficulty, and that I think I can master." 
 
 She rang for the new maid, a placid woman of forty, with a 
 few gray hairs. 
 
 "Ask Miss Graye if she can come to me." 
 
 Cytherea was not far off, and came in. 
 
 "Do you know anything about architects and surveyors?" 
 said Miss Aldclyffe abruptly. 
 
 "Know anything?" replied Cytherea, poising herself on her 
 toe to consider the compass of the question. 
 
 "Yes — know anything?" said Miss Aldclyffe. 
 
 "Owen is an architect and surveyor's clerk," the maiden said, 
 and thought of somebody else who was likewise. 
 
 "Yes; that's v/hy I asked you. What are the different kinds 
 of work comprised in an architect's practice? They lay out 
 estates and superintend the various works done upon them, I 
 should think, among other things?" 
 
 "Those are, more properly, a land or building steward's 
 duties — at least I have always imagined so. Country architects 
 include those things in their practice; city architects don't." 
 
 'T know that. But a steward's is an indefinite fast-and-loose 
 profession, it seems to me. Shouldn't you think that a man 
 wdio had been brought up as an architect would do for a 
 steward? 
 
 Cytherea had doubts whether an architect pure would do. 
 
 Tlie chief pleasure connected with asking an opinion lies 
 in not adopting it. Miss Aldclyffe replied decisively: 
 
 "N'onsense ; of course he would. Your brother Owen makes 
 plans for country buildings — such as cottages, stables, home- 
 steads, and so on?" 
 
 7 
 
04 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Yes; he docs." 
 
 "And superintends the building of them?" 
 
 *'Ycs; he will soon." 
 
 "And he surveys land?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "And he knows about hedges and ditches — how wide they 
 ought to be, boundaries, leveling, planting trees to keep away 
 the winds, measuring timber, houses for ninety-nine years, and 
 such things?" 
 
 "I' have never heard him say that; but I think Mr. Grad- 
 ficld does those things. Owen, I am afraid, is inexperienced as 
 yet.". 
 
 "Yes; your brother is not old enough for such a post yet, of 
 course. And then there are rent days, the auditing and winding 
 up of tradesmen's accounts. I am afraid, Cytherea, you don't 
 
 know much more about the matter than I do myself 
 
 I am going out just now," she continued. "I shall not want 
 you to walk with me to-day. Run away till dinner-time." 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe went out of doors, and down the steps to the 
 lawn; then turning to the right, through a shrubber}-, she 
 opened a wicket and passed into a neglected and leafy carriage- 
 drive leading down the hill. This she followed till she reached 
 the point of its greatest depression, which was also the lowest 
 ground in the whole grove. 
 
 The trees hero were so interlaced, and hung their branches so 
 near tlic ground, that a whole summer's day was scarcely long 
 enough to change the air pervading the spot from its normal 
 state of coolness to even a temporar}- warmth. The unvarying 
 freshness was helped by the nearness of the ground to the level 
 of the sjirings, and by the presence of a deep, sluggish stream 
 close bv, ccjually well shaded by bushes and a high wall. Fol- 
 lowing the road, which now ran along at the margin of the 
 stream, she came to an opening in the wall, on the other side 
 oi the water, revealing a large rectangular nook, from which the 
 stream proceeded, covered with froth, and accompanied by a 
 (lull roar. Two more steps, and she was opposite the nook, in 
 lull view of the cascade forming its farther boundary. Over the 
 to]) could be seen the bright outer sky in the form of a crescent 
 caused by the cun'c of a bridge across the rapids and the trees 
 above. 
 
 Beautiful as was the scene, she did not look in that direction. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 95 
 
 The same standing-ground afforded another prospect, straight 
 in the front, less somber than the water on the right or the trees 
 on the left. The avenue and grove which flanked it abruptly 
 terminated a few yards ahead, where the ground began to rise, 
 and on the remote edge of the greensward thus laid open stood 
 all that remained of the original manor-house, to which the dark 
 marginal line of the trees in the avenue formed an adequate and 
 well-fitting frame. It was the picture thus presented that was 
 now interesting Miss Aldclyffe — not artistically nor historically, 
 but practically, as regarded its fitness for adaptation to modern 
 requirements. 
 
 In front, detached from everything else, rose the most ancient 
 portion of the structure — an old arched gateway, flanked by 
 the bases of two small towers, and nearly covered with creepers, 
 which had clambered over the eaves of the sinking roof, and 
 up the gable to the crest of the Aldclyffe family perched on the 
 apex. Behind this, at a distance of ten or twenty yards, came 
 the only portion of the main building that still existed — an 
 Elizabethan fragment, consisting of as much as could be con- 
 tained under three gables and a cross roof behind. Against the 
 wall could be seen ragged lines indicating the form of other 
 destroyed gables which had once joined it there. The mullioned 
 and transomed windows, containing five or six lights, were 
 mostly bricked up to the extent of two or three, and the remain- 
 ing portion fitted with cottage window-frames carelessly 
 inserted, to suit the purpose to which the old place was now 
 applied, it being partitioned out into small rooms downstairs to 
 form cottages for two laborers and their families; the upper 
 portion was arranged as a storehouse for divers kinds of roots 
 and fruit. 
 
 The owner of the picturesque spot, after her survey from this 
 point, went up to the walls and walked into the old court, 
 where the paving-stones were pushed sideways and upward 
 by the thrust of the grasses between them. Two or three chil- 
 dren, with their fingers in their mouths, came out to look at her, 
 and then ran in to tell their mothers, in loud tones of secrecy, 
 that Miss Aldclyfife was coming. Miss Aldclyffe, how^ever, did 
 not come in. She concluded her survey of the exterior by 
 making a complete circuit of the building, then turned into a 
 nook a short distance off, where round and square timber, a 
 saw-pit, planks, grindstones, heaps of building-stone and brick, 
 7 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 explained that this spot was the center of operations for the 
 builihncf work done on the estate. 
 
 She paused and looked around. A man who had seen her 
 from tlic window of the workshops behind came out and respect- 
 fully lifted his hat to her. It was the first time she had been seen 
 walkincf outside the house since her father's death. 
 
 "F.urden, could the Old House be made a decent residence ol 
 without nuich trouble?" she inquired. 
 
 The tradesman considered, and spoke as each consideration 
 completed itself. 
 
 "You don't forget, madaiu, that two-thirds of the place is 
 already pulled down, or gone to ruin?" 
 
 "Yes; I know." 
 
 "And that what's left may almost as well be, madam?" 
 
 "Why may it?" 
 
 " 'Twas so cut up inside when they made it into cottages that 
 the whole carcass is full of cracks." 
 
 "Still, by pulling down the inserted partitions and adding a 
 little outside, it could be made to answer the purpose of an 
 ordinary six or eight roomed house?" 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "About what would it cost?" was the question which had 
 invariably come next in every conuuunication of this kind to 
 which the clerk of works had been a party during his whole 
 experience. To his surprise Miss Aldclyfte did not put it. The 
 man thought hor object in altering an old house must have 
 been an unusually absorbing one not to prompt what was so 
 instinctive in owners as hardly to require any prompting at all. 
 
 "Thank you; that is sufficient, Burden," she said. "You will 
 miderstand that it is not unlikely some alteration may be made 
 here in a short time, with reference to the management of 
 affairs." 
 
 r.urdcn said "Yes" in a complex voice, and looked uneasy. 
 
 "During the life of Captain AldclyfTe, with you as the foreman 
 of works and he himself as his own steward, everything worked 
 well, but now it niay be necessary to have a steward whose 
 management will encroach farther upon things which have 
 hitherto been left in your hands than did your late master's. 
 What I mean is, tlir.t he will dircctlv and in detail superintend 
 all." 
 
 "Then — I shall U'tt lie wanted." madam?" he faltered. 
 
rJESPERATE REMEDIES. 97 
 
 "Oh, yes; if you like to stay on as foreman in the yard and 
 workshops only. I should be sorry to lose you. However, you 
 had bettor consider. I will send for you in a few days." 
 
 Leaving him to suspense, and all the ills that came in its train 
 — distracted application to liis duties, and an undefined number 
 of sleepless nights and untasted dinners — Miss Aldclyffc looked 
 at her watch and returned to the house. She was about to keep 
 an appointment with her solicitor, Mr. Nyttleton, who had been 
 to Creston, and was coming to Knapwater on his way back to 
 London. 
 
 § 2. August the twejttieth. 
 
 On the Saturday subsequent to Mr. Nyttleton's visit to Knap- 
 water House, the subjoined advertisement appeared in the 
 "Field" and the "Builder" newspapers: 
 
 "Land Steward. 
 "A gentleman of integrity and professional skill is required 
 immediately for the management of an estate, containing about 
 800 acres, upon which agricultural improvements and the erec- 
 tion of buildings are contemplated. He must be a man of su- 
 perior education, unmarried, and not more than thirty years of 
 age. Considerable preference will be shown for one who pos- 
 sesses an artistic as well as a practical knowledge of planning 
 and laying-out. The remuneration will consist of a salary of 
 £220, with the old manor-house as a residence. Address Messrs. 
 Nyttleton and Tayling, solicitors, Lincoln's-Inn-Fields." 
 
 A copy of each paper was sent to Miss Aldclyffe on the day 
 of publication. The same evening she told Cytherea that she 
 was advertising for a steward, who would live at the old manor- 
 house, showing her the papers containing the announcement. 
 
 What was the drift of that remark? thought the maiden; or 
 was it merely made to her in confidential intercourse, as other 
 arrangements were told her daily. Yet it seemed to have more 
 meaning than common. She remembered the conversation 
 about architects and surveyors, and her brother Owen. Miss 
 Aldclyffe knew that his situation was precarious, that he was 
 well educated and practical, and was applying himself heart and 
 soul t(j the details of the profession and all connected witli it. 
 7 
 
9C DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffc might be ready to take him if he could compete 
 successfully with others who would reply. She hazarded a 
 (|uestiou: 
 
 "Would it be desirable for Owen to answer it?" 
 
 "Xot at all," said Miss Aldclyflfe peremptorily. 
 
 A Hat answer of this kind had ceasei! to alarm Cytherea. 
 Miss AldclyiTe's blunt mood was not lier worst. Cytherea 
 thought of another man, whose name, in sj^ite of resolves, tears, 
 renunciations, and injured pride, lingered in her ears like an 
 old familiar strain. That man was qualified for a stewardship 
 imder a king. 
 
 "Would it be of any use if Edward Springrove were to answer 
 it?" she said, resolutely enunciating the name. 
 
 "Xone whatever," replied Miss AldclyfFe, again in the same 
 decided tone. 
 
 "You are ver)- unkind to speak in that way." 
 
 "Xow, don't pout like a goosie, as you are. I don't want 
 men like cither of them, for, of course* I must look to the good 
 of the estate rather than to that of any individual. The man I 
 want must have been more specially educated. 1 have told 
 you that we are going to London next week; it is mostly on 
 this account." 
 
 Cytherea thus found that she had mistaken the drift of Mis:; 
 Aldclyffe's peculiar cxplicitncss on the subject of advertising. 
 .'11(1 wrote to tell her brother that if he saw the notice it would 
 lie useless to reply. 
 
 § 3. Aui-usf the iwcntx-fifth. 
 
 Five day? after the above-mentioned dialogue took place they 
 went to London, and. with scarcely a minute's pause, to the 
 solicitor's ofiices in Lincoln's-Inn-1'ields. 
 
 They alighted opposite one of the characteristic entrances 
 about ihe place — a gate which was never, and could never be. 
 clo<;cd, flanked by lamp-standards carrying no lamp. Rust 
 was the only active agent to be seen there at this time of the 
 day and year. The j^alings along the front were rusted away 
 at their base to the thinness of wires, and the successive coats 
 of paint, with which they were overlaid in by-gone days, had 
 b( en completely undcrmimd by the same insidious canker, 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 99 
 
 which Hfted off the paint in flakes, leaving the raw surface of the 
 iron on palings, standards, and gate hinges, of a staring blood 
 red. 
 
 Put once inside the railings the picture changed. The court 
 and offices were a complete contrast to the grand ruin of the 
 outwork which inclosed them. Well-painted respectability 
 extended over, within, and around the doorstep; and in the 
 carefully swept yard not a particle of dust was visible. 
 
 Mr. Nyttleton, who had just come up from JMargate, where 
 he was staying with his family, was standing at the top of his 
 own staircase as the pair ascended. He politely took them 
 inside. 
 
 "Is there a comfortable room in which this young lady can 
 sit during our interview?" said Miss Aldclyffe. 
 
 It was rather a favorite habit of hers to make much of Cy- 
 thcrea when they were out, and snub her for it afterward when 
 they got home. 
 
 "Certainly — j\Ir. Tayling's." Cytherea was shown into an 
 inner rnoni. 
 
 Social definitions are all made relatively: an absolute datum 
 is only imagined. The small gentry about Knapwater seemed 
 unpracticed to Miss Aldclyffe, Miss Aldclyffe herself seemed 
 unpracticed to Mr. Nyttleton's experienced old eyes. 
 
 "Now, then," the lady said, when she was alone with the 
 lawyer; "what is the result of our advertisement?" 
 
 It was late summer; the estate-agency, building, engineering 
 and surveying worlds were dull. There were forty-five replies 
 to the advertisement. 
 
 Mr. Nyttleton spread them one by one before ^liss Aldclyffe. 
 "You will probably like to read some of them yourself, madam?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes, certainly," said she. 
 
 "I will not trouble you with those which are from persons 
 manifestly unfit at first sight," he continued ; and began select- 
 ing from the heap twos and threes which he had marked, collect- 
 ing others into his hand. "The man we want lies among these, 
 if my judgment doesn't deceive me, and from them it would be 
 advisable to select a certain number to be communicated with." 
 
 "I should like to see every one — only just to glance them 
 over — exactly as they came," she said suasively. 
 
100 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Ho looked as if he thoufjht this a waste of his lime, ])ut dis- 
 inissini^ his scnliment unfolded each singly and laid it bcforeher. 
 As he laid thcni out. it struck him that she stutlied them quite 
 as rapidly as he could spread them. He slyly i;lanced up from 
 the outer corner of his eye to hers, and noticecl that all she did 
 was to look at the name at the bottom of the letter, and then put 
 the inclosure aside without further ceremony. He thought 
 this an odd way of inciuiring into the merits of forty-five men, 
 who at considerable trouble gave in detail reasons why they 
 believed themselves well qualified for a certain post. She came 
 to the final one, and put it down with the rest. 
 
 Then the lady said that in her opinion it would be best to get 
 as many replies as they possibly could before selecting — "to 
 give us a wider choice. What do you think, Mr. Xvttleton?" 
 
 It seemed to him, he said, that a greater number than those 
 they already had would scarcely be necessary, and if they waited 
 for more there would be this disadvantage attending it, that 
 some of those they now could command would possibly not be 
 availa1)le. 
 
 "Never mind, wc will run that risk," said Miss Aldclyffe. "Let 
 tlic adxcrtiscmcnt be inserted once more, and then we will cer- 
 tainly settle the matter." 
 
 Mr. Xyttlcton bowed, and seemed to think Miss Aldclyffo, 
 for a single woman, and one who till so very recently had never 
 concerned herself with business of any kind, a very meddlesome 
 client. But she was rich and handsome still. "She's a new- 
 broom in estate-management as yet," he thought, "She v.i!l 
 soon get tired of this," and he parted from her without a senti- 
 ment which could mar his habitual blandness. 
 
 The two ladies then proceeded westward. Dismissing the 
 call in Waterloo place, they went along Pall >Tall on foot, 
 wlicre in place of the usual well-dressed clubbists — rubicund 
 with alcohol — were to be seen in linen pinafores flocks of house- 
 painters pallid from white lead. When they had reached the 
 Green Park, Cylhcrea proposed that they should sit down awhile 
 under the young elms at the brow of the hill. This they did — 
 the growl of Piccadilly on their left hand — the monastic seclu- 
 ?i<">n of the palace on their right: before them, tlie clock tower 
 rif the Houses of Parliament, standing forth with a metallic 
 luster against a livid Lambeth sky. 
 
 Miss AldclytTe still carried in iier hand a copy of the news- 
 
DESPERATE REMBDIEJS. ,,.._,_, ,^ ,^ , , J.01 
 
 paper, and while Cytherea had been ihtefest'ing herself m'the 
 picture around, glanced again at the advertisement. 
 
 She heaved a slight sigh, and began to fold it up again. In 
 the action her eye caught sight of two consecutive advertise- 
 ments on the cover, one relating to some lecture on art, and 
 addressed to members of the Society of Architects. The other 
 emanated from the same source, but was addressed to the pub- 
 lic, and stated that the exhibition of drawings at the society's 
 rooms would close at the end of that week. 
 
 Her eye lighted up. She sent Cytherea back to the hotel in 
 a cab, then turned round by Piccadilly into Bond street, and 
 proceeded to the rooms of the society. The secretary was sit- 
 ting in the lobby. After making her payment, and looking at 
 a few of the drawings on the walls, in the company of three 
 gentlemen, the only other visitors to the exhibition, she turned 
 back and asked if she might be allowed to see a list of the mem- 
 bers. She was a little connected with the architectural world, 
 she said with a smile, and was interested in some of tlie names. 
 
 "Here it is, madam," he replied, politely handing her a pam- 
 phlet containing the names. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe turned the leaves till she came to the letter 
 M. The name she hoped to find there was there, with the ad- 
 dress appended, as was the case with all the rest. 
 
 The address was at some chambers in a street not far from 
 Charing Cross. "Chambers" as a residence had always been 
 assumed by the lady to imply the condition of a bachelor. She 
 murmured two words, "There still." 
 
 Another request had yet to be made, but it was of a more 
 noticeable kind than the first, and might compromise the secrecy 
 with which she wished to act through this episode. Ker object 
 was to get one of the envelopes lying on the secretary's table, 
 stamped with the die of the society ; and in order to get it she 
 was about to ask if she might vrrite a note. 
 
 But the secretary's back chanced to be turned, and he now 
 went toward one of the men at the other end of the room, who 
 had called him to ask some question relating to an etching on 
 the wall. Quick as thought. Miss Aldclyffe stood before the 
 table, slipped her hand behind her, took one of the envelopes 
 and put it in her pocket. 
 
 She sauntered round the rooms for two or three minutes 
 longer, then withdrew and returned to her hotel. 
 
102 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Here she cut thd 'Kitapwatcr advertisement from the paper, 
 put it into the envelope she had stolen, eml)o?scd with the 
 society's stamj). and directed it in a round, clerkly hand to the 
 address she had seen in the list of members' names submitted 
 to her: 
 
 Aeneas Manstun, Esq.. 
 
 Wykeham Chambers, 
 
 Spring Gardens. 
 
 This ended her first day's work in London. 
 
 § 4. From Aui^ust t)te Ixuenty-sixtli to September the firs'. 
 
 The two Cythereas continued at the Westminster Hotel. Miss 
 AldclyfTe informing her companion that business would detain 
 them in London another week. The days passed as slowly and 
 drearily as days can pass in a city at that time of the year, the 
 shuttered windows about the squares and terraces confronting 
 their eyes like the white and sightless orbs of a blind man. On 
 • Thursday Mr. Nyttleton called, bringing the whole number of 
 replies to the advertisement. Cytherea was present at the ititcr- 
 view. by Miss AldclyfFe's request — either from whim or design. 
 
 Ten additional letters were the result of the second week's 
 insertion, making fifty-five in all. Miss Aldclyffe looked them 
 over as before. One was signed: 
 
 Aeneas Manston. 
 
 133 Durngate Street, 
 
 Liverpool. 
 
 "Xow then, ^^r. Xvttleton. will you make a selection and 
 I will add one or twti." Miss AldclylTc said. 
 
 Mr. Xyttleton scanned the whole heap of letters, testimonials 
 nufl references, sorting them into two heaps. Manston's mis- 
 sive, after a mere glance, was thrown among the summarily 
 rejected ones. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 103 
 
 Miss Aldclyfife read, or pretended to read, after the lawyer. 
 When he had finished, five lay in the group he had selected. 
 "Would you like to add to the number?" he said, turning to the 
 lady. 
 
 "Xo," she said carelessly. "Well, two or three additional 
 ones rather took my fancy," she added, searching for some 
 in the larger collection. 
 
 She drew out three. One was Manston's. 
 
 "These eight, then, shall be communicated with," said the 
 lawyer, taking up the eight letters and placing them by them- 
 selves. 
 
 They stood up. "If I myself, madam, were only concerned 
 personally," he said in an off-hand way, and holding up a letter 
 singly, "I should choose this man unhesitatingly. He writes 
 honestly, is not afraid to name what he does not consider him- 
 self well acquainted with — a rare thing to find in answers to 
 advertisements; he is well recommended, and possesses some 
 qualities rarely found in combination. Oddly enough, he is not 
 really a steward. He was bred a farmer, studied building 
 affairs, served on an estate for some time, then went with an 
 architect, and is now well qualified as architect, estate agent, 
 and surveyor. That man is sure to have a fine head for a manor 
 like yours." He tapped the letter as he spoke. "Yes, I should 
 choose him without hesitation — speaking personally." 
 
 "And I think," she said, artificially, "I should choose this one 
 as a matter of mere personal whim, which, of course, can't be 
 given way to when practical questions have to be considered." 
 
 Cytherea, after looking out of the window, and then at the 
 newspapers, had become interested in the proceedings between 
 the clever Miss Aldclyffe and the keen old lawyer, which re- 
 minded her of a game at cards. She looked inquiringly at the 
 two letters — one in Miss Aldclyffe's hand, the other in Mr. 
 Nyttleton's. 
 
 "What is the name of your man?" said Miss Aldclyffe. 
 
 "His name," said the lawyer, looking down the page; "what 
 is his name — it is Edward Springrove." 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe glanced toward Cytherea, who was getting 
 red and pale by turns. She looked inquiringly at Miss Ald- 
 clyffe. 
 
 "The name of my man," said Miss Aldclyffe, looking at her 
 letter in turn, "is, I think — yes — Aeneas Manston." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 § 5. Sfpli-mbfr the thirJ. 
 
 Tlie next mominjj but one was appointed for the inten-icw^, 
 wliicli were to ])c at the lawyer's offices. Mr. Nvttlcton and 
 Mr. Tayhnpj were both in town for the day, and the candidates 
 were admitted one by one into a private room. In the window 
 recess was seated Mis.<^ .-Mdclyffe, wearing^ her veil down. 
 
 The lawyer had, in his letters to the selected number, timed 
 each candidate at an inter\-al of ten or fifteen minutes from 
 those preceding and following. They were shown in as they 
 arrived, and had short conversations with Mr. Xyttleton — terse, 
 and to the point. Miss Aldclyffe never moved nor spoke 
 during this proceeding; it might have been supposed that she 
 was quite unmindful of it, had it not been for what was revealed 
 by a keen penetration of the veil covering her countenance — the 
 rays from two bright black eyes directed toward the lawyer 
 and his interlocutor. 
 
 Springrove came fifth; Manston seventh. When the exam- 
 ination of all was ended, and the last man had retired, Xyttle- 
 ton again, as at the former time, blandly asked his client which 
 of the eight she personally preferred. "I still think the fifth we 
 spoke to, Springrove, the man whose letter I pounced upon 
 at first, to be by far the best qualified, in short, most suitable 
 generally." 
 
 "I am sorry to say that I differ from you; I lean to my first 
 notion still — ^that Mr. — Mr. Manston is most desirable in tone 
 and bearing, and even specifically I think he would suit me best 
 in the long run." 
 
 Mr. Xyttleton looked out of the window at the whitened wall 
 of the court. 
 
 "Of course, matlam, your opinion may be perfectly sound 
 and reliable; a sort of instinct, I know, often leads ladies by 
 a .short cut to conclusions truer than those come to by men after 
 laborious roundabout calculations, based on long experience. 
 I must say I shouldn't recommend him." 
 
 "Why. pray?" 
 
 "Well, let us look first at his letter of answer to the advertise- 
 ment. He didn't reply until the last insertion; that's one thing. 
 His letter is bold and frank in tone, so bold and frank that the 
 second thought after reading it is that not honesty, but un- 
 
DESl'ERATE REMEDIEIS. 105 
 
 scrupulousness of conscience dictated it. It is written in an 
 inditlerent mood, as if he felt that he was humbugging us in his 
 statement that he was the right man for such an office, that he 
 tried hard to get it only as a matter of form which required that 
 he should neglect no opportunity that came in his way." 
 
 "You may be right, Mr. Nyttleton, but I don't quite see the 
 grounds of your reasoning." 
 
 "He has been, as you perceive, almost entirely used to the 
 office duties of a city architect, the experience we don't want. 
 You want a man whose acquaintance with rural landed proper- 
 ties is more practical and closer — somebody who, if he has not 
 filled exactly such an office before, has lived a country life, 
 knows the ins and outs of country tenancies, building, farming, 
 and so on." 
 
 "He's by far the most intellectual looking of them all." 
 
 "Yes; he may be — your opinion, madam, is worth more than 
 mine in that matter. And more than you say, he is a man of 
 parts — his brain power would soon enable him to master de- 
 tails and fit him for the post, I don't much doubt that. But to 
 speak clearly" (here his words started off at a jog-trot) "I 
 wouldn't run the risk of placing the management of an estate of 
 mine in his hands on any account whatever. There, that's flat 
 and plain, madam." 
 
 "But, definitely," she said, wath a show of impatience; "what 
 is your reason ?" 
 
 "He is a voluptuary with activity; which is a very bad form 
 of man — as bad as it is rare.'' 
 
 "Oh. Thank you for your explicit statement, Mr. Nyttle- 
 ton," said Miss Aldclyffe, starting a little and flushing with dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 Mr. Nyttleton nodded slightly, as a sort of neutral motion, 
 simply signifying a receipt of the information, good or bad. 
 
 "And I really think it is hardly worth while to trouble you 
 further in this," continued the lady. "He's quite good enough 
 for a little insignificant place like mine at Knapwater; and I 
 know that I could not get on with one of the others for a single 
 month. We'll try him." 
 
 "Certainly, madam," said the lawyer. And Mr. Manston 
 was written to, to the effect that he v/as the successful com- 
 petitor. 
 
 "Did you see how unmistakably her temper was getting the 
 
106 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 better of her that minute you were in the room?" said Xyttleton 
 to Tayling^, when their cHent had left the house. Xyttleton was 
 a man who surveyed everybody's character in a sunless and 
 shadowless northern light. A culpable slyness, which marked 
 him as a boy, had been molded by Time, the Improver, into 
 honorable circumsj)ecti()n. 
 
 We frec|uently fnul that the quality which, conjoined with the 
 simplicity of the child, is vice, is virtue when it pervades the 
 knowledge of the man. 
 
 "She was as near as damn-it to boiling over when I added up 
 her man," continued Xyttleton. "His handsome face is the 
 qualification in her eyes. They have met before; I saw that." 
 
 "He didn't seem conscious of it." said the junior. 
 
 "He didn't. That was rather puzzling to me. r>ut still, if 
 ever a woman's face spoke out plainly that she was in love with 
 a man, hers did that she was with him. Poor old maid, she's 
 almost old enough to be his mother. If that Mansion's a 
 schemer he'll marry her, as sure as I am Xyttleton. Let's hope 
 he's honest, however." 
 
 "I don't think she's in love with him," said Tayling. He had 
 seen but little of the pair, and yet he could not reconcile what he 
 had noticed in Miss Aldclyffe's behavior with the idea that it 
 was the bearing of a woman toward her lover. 
 
 "Well, your experience of the fiery phenomenon is more 
 recent than mine," rejoined Xyttleton carelessly. "And you may 
 remember the nature of it best." 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN DAYS. 
 § I . From the third to the nineteenth of September. 
 
 Miss Aldclyfife's tenderness toward Cytherea, between the 
 hours of her irascibihty, increased, till it became no less than 
 doting fondness. Like nature in the tropics, \vith her hurricanes 
 and the subsequent luxuriant vegetation effacing their ravages, 
 Aliss Aldclyffe compensated for her outbursts by excess of 
 generosity afterward. She seemed to be completely won out 
 of herself by close contact with a young woman whosajnodesty 
 was absolutely unimpaired, and whose artlessness was as perfect 
 as w^as compatible with the complexity necessary to produce the 
 due charm of womanhood. Cytherea, on her part, perceived 
 with honest satisfaction that her influence for good over Miss 
 AldclyfTe was considerable. Ideas and habits peculiar to the 
 younger, which the elder lady had originally imitated in a mere 
 whim, she grew in course of time to take a positive delight in. 
 Among others were evening and morning prayers, dreaming 
 over out-door scenes, learning a verse from some poem while 
 dressing. 
 
 Yet try to force her sympathies as much as she would, Cy- 
 therea could feel no more than thankful for this, even if she 
 always felt as much as that. The mysterious cloud hanging 
 over the past life of her companion, of which the uncertain light 
 already thrown upon it only seemed to render still darker the 
 unpenetrated remainder, nourished in her a feeling which was 
 scarcely too light to be called dread. She would have infinitely 
 preferred to be treated distantly, as the mere dependent, by such 
 a changeable nature — like a fountain, always herself, yet al- 
 ways another. That a crime of any deep dye had ever been 
 perpetrated or participated in by her namesake, she would not 
 believe ; but the reckless adventuring of the lady's youth seemed 
 connected with deeds of darkness rather than light. 
 
108 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Sometimes Miss AldclyfTe appeared to be on the point of 
 making some absorbini^ confidence, but reflection invariably 
 restrained her. Cytherea hoped that such a confidence would 
 come witli time, and that she rnVf^^hi thus be a means of soothing 
 a mind which had obviously known extreme sufTering. 
 
 r.ut Miss Aldclyffe's reticence concerning her past was not 
 imitated by Cytherea. Though she never disclosed the one fact 
 of her knowledge that the love-suit between Miss Aldclyffe 
 and her father terminated abnomially, the maiden's natural 
 ingenuousness on subjects not set down for special guard had 
 enabled Miss AldclyfTe to worm from her, fragment by frag- 
 ment, every detail of her father's history. Cytherea saw how 
 deeply Miss AldclyfTe sympathized — and it compensated her, to 
 some extent, for tlie hasty resentment of other times. 
 
 Thus uncertainly she lived on. It was perceived by the 
 servants of the house that some secret bond of connection 
 existed between Miss AldclyfTe and her companion. But they 
 were woman and woman, not woman and man, the facts were 
 ethereal and refined, and so they could not be worked up into 
 a taking stor}-. Whether, as critics dispute, a supernatural 
 machinery be necessary to an epic or no, a carnal plot is decid- 
 edly nccessar}- to a scandal. 
 
 Another letter had come to her from Edward — very short, 
 but full of entreaty, asking why she would not write just one 
 line — just one line of cold friendship at least? She then allowed 
 herself to think, little by little, whether she had not perhaps 
 been too liarsh with him ; and at last wondered if he were really 
 much to blame for being engaged to another woman. "Ah, 
 Brain, there is one in me stronger than you!" she said. The 
 young maid now continually pulled out his letter, read it ami 
 re-read it, almost crying with pity the while, to think what 
 wretched suspense he nnist be enduring at her silence, till her 
 heart chid her for her cruelty. She felt that she must send him 
 a line — one little line — just a wee line to keep him alive, poor 
 thing; sighing like Donna Clara: 
 
 "Ah, were he now before rue. 
 In spite of Injured pride. 
 I fear my eyes would pardon 
 Before my tongue could chide." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 109 
 
 § 2. September the twentieth. Three tofotcrp. m. 
 
 It was the third week in September, about five weeks after 
 Cytherea's arrival, when Miss Aldclyffe requested her one day 
 to go through the village of Carriford and assist herself in 
 collecting the subscriptions made by some of the inhabitants 
 of the parish to a religious society she patronized. Miss Ald- 
 clyffe formed one of what was called a Ladies' Association, 
 each member of which collected tributary streams of shillings 
 from her inferiors to add to her own pound at the end. 
 
 J\Iiss Aldclyffe took particular interest in Cytherea's appear- 
 ance that afternoon, and the object of her attention was, indeed, 
 gratifying to look at. The sight of the lithe girl, set off by an 
 airy dress, coquettish jacket, flexible hat, a ray of starlight in 
 each eye, and a war of lilies and roses in each cheek, was a 
 palpable pleasure which appeared to partake less of the nature 
 of affectionate satisfaction than of mental gratification. 
 
 Eight names were printed in the report as belonging to Miss 
 Aldclyffc's list, with the amount of subscription money attached 
 to each. 
 
 "I will collect the first four, while you do the same with the 
 last four," said Miss Aldclyft'e. 
 
 The names of two tradespeople stood first in Cytherea's share; 
 then came a Miss Hinton; last of all in the printed list was Mr. 
 Springrove the elder. Underneath his name was penciled in 
 Miss Aldclyffe's handwriting, "Mr. Manston." 
 
 Manston had arrived on the estate, in the capacity of steward, 
 three or four days previously, and occupied the old manor- 
 house, which had been altered and repaired for his reception. 
 
 "Call on Mr. Manston," said the lady, impressively, looking 
 at the name written under Cytherea's portion of the list, 
 
 "But he does not subscribe yet?" 
 
 "I know it; but call and leave him a report. Don't forget it" 
 
 "Say you would be pleased if he would subscribe?" 
 
 "Yes — say I should be pleased if he would," repeated Miss 
 Aldclyffe, smiling. "Good-by, Don't hurry in your walk. If 
 you can't get easily through your task to-day put off some of it 
 till to-morrov/." 
 
 Each then started on her rounds: Cytherea going in the first 
 place to the old manor-house. Mr. Manston was not indoors, 
 
 8 
 
no L>i.M'i:nA 1 1: kj: .muiiuj.s. 
 
 which was a relief to her. She called then on the two ger.tlc- 
 inan-fariners" wives, who soon transacted their l)usiness with 
 her, frigidly indifferent to her personality. A person who social- 
 ly is nothing is thought less of by people who are nut much than 
 by those who are a great deal. 
 
 She then turned toward Peakhill Cottage, the residence of 
 Miss Ilinton, who lived there hapi)ily enough, with an elderly 
 servant and a house-dog as conipani«,)ns. Her father, and last 
 remaining parent, had retired thitiier f jur years before this time, 
 after having filled the post of editor to the "l-'roominster Chron- 
 icle" for eighteen or twenty years. There he died soon after, 
 and though comparatively a poor man, he left his daughter suffi- 
 ciently well provided for as a modest fundholder and claimant 
 of sundry small sums in dividends to maintain herself as mis- 
 tress at IVakhill. 
 
 At Cytherea's knock an inner door was heard to open and 
 close, and footsteps crossed the passage hesitatingly. The next 
 minute Cytherea stood face to face with the lady herself. 
 
 Adelaide Ilinton was about nine-and-twenty years of ago. 
 Her hair was plentiful, like Cytherea's own; her teeth equaled 
 Cytherea's in regularity and whiteness. Rut she was mucli 
 paler, and had features too transparent to be in place among 
 househoUl surroundings. Her mouth expressed love less 
 forcibly than Cytherea's, and, as a natural result of her greater 
 maturity, her tread was less elastic, and she was more seli- 
 possessed. 
 
 She had been a girl of that kind which mothers praise as not 
 f(jrward, by way of contrast when disparaging those nobler 
 ones with whom loving is an end and not a means. Men of 
 forty, too, said of her, " a good sensible wife for any man, if 
 she cares to marry," the caring to marry being thrown in as 
 the vaguest hypothesis, because she was so practical. Yet it 
 would be singular if. in such cases, the important subject of mar- 
 riage should be excluded from manipulation by hands that arc 
 ready for practical performance in every domestic concern 
 besides. 
 
 Cytherea was an acquisition, and the greeting was hearty. 
 
 "Good-aflernoon! Oh. yes — Miss Graye. from Miss .\1<1 
 clyffe's. I have seen you at church, and I am so glad you have 
 called I Come in. I wonder if I have change enough to pay 
 niv subscription." .^he spoki- girlislily. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. Ill 
 
 Adelaide, when in the company of a younger woman, always 
 leveled herself down to that younger woman's age from a sense 
 of justice to herself — as if, though not her own age at common 
 law, it was in equity. 
 
 "It doesn't matter. I'll come again." 
 
 "Yes ; do at any time ; not only on this errand. But you must 
 step in for a minute. Do." 
 
 "I have been wanting to, for several weeks." 
 "That's right. Now you must see my house — lonely, isn't it, 
 for a single lady? People said it was odd for a young woman 
 like me to keep on a house; but what did I care? If you knew 
 the pleasure of locking up your own door, with the sensation 
 that you reigned supreme inside it, you would say it was worth 
 the risk of being called odd. Mr. Springrove attends to my 
 gardening, the dog attends to robbers, and whenever there is 
 a snake or toad to kill, Jane does it." 
 
 "How nice. It is better than living in a town." 
 "Far better. A town makes a cynic of me." 
 The remark recalled, somewhat startlingly, to Cytherea's 
 mind that Edward had used those very words to herself one 
 evening at Creston. 
 
 Miss Hinton opened an interior door, and led her visitor into 
 a small drawing-room commanding a view of the country for 
 miles. 
 
 The missionary business was soon settled; but the chat con- 
 tinued. 
 
 "How lonely it must be here at night," said Cytherea. "Aren't 
 you afraid?" 
 
 "At first I was slightly. But I got used to the solitude. And 
 you -know a sort of common sense will creep even into timidity. 
 I say to myself sometimes at night, 'If I were anybody but a 
 harmless woman, not worth the trouble of a worm's ghost to 
 appear to me, I should think that every sound I hear was a 
 spirit.' But you must see all over my house." 
 Cytherea was very interested in seeing. 
 
 "I say you must do this, and you must do that, as if you were 
 
 a child," remarked Adelaide. "A privileged friend of mine tells 
 
 me this use of the imperative comes of being so constantly in 
 
 nobody's society but my own." 
 
 "Ah, yes. I suppose she is right." 
 
 Cytherea called the friend "she" by a rule of ladylike prac- 
 
112 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 ticc; for a woman's "friend" is delicately assumed by aii.jilur 
 friend to he of their own sex in tiie absence of kncjwledge to tlie 
 contrary; just as cats are called shes until they prove themselves 
 hcs. 
 
 Miss Ilinton laughed mysteriously. 
 
 "I get a humorous reproof for it now and then, I assure yon." 
 she continued. 
 
 ■"Humorous reproof:* that's not from a woman: who can 
 repnjve humorously but a man?" was the groove of Cytherca's 
 thought at the remark. "Your brother reproves you, I expect." 
 said that innocent young lady. 
 
 "No," said Miss Hinton with a candid air. " 'Tis o;ily a 
 gentleman I am acquainted with." She looked out of the 
 window. 
 
 Women are persistently imitative. No sooner did a thought 
 flash through Cytherea's mind that the gentleman was a lover 
 than she became a Miss Aldclyffe in a mild form. 
 
 "I imagine he's a sweetheart." she said. 
 
 Miss Hinton smiled a smile of experience in that line. 
 
 I-^ew women, if taxed with having an admirer, are so free 
 from vanity as to deny the impeachment, even if it is utterly 
 untrue. \Vhen it does happen to be true, they look pityingly 
 away from the person who is so benighted as to have got no 
 farther than suspecting it. 
 
 "There nov,-. Miss Hinton; you arc engaged to be married!" 
 said Cytherea, accusingly. 
 
 Adelaide nodded her head practically. "Well yes, I am," 
 she said. 
 
 The woril "engaged" had no sooner passed Cytherea's lips 
 than the sound of it — the mere sound by her own lips — carried 
 her mind to the time and the circumstances under which 
 Miss AldclyfTe had used it toward herself. A sickening thought 
 followed — based but on a mere surmise; yet its presence took 
 every other idea away from Cytherea's mind. Miss Hinton had 
 used Edward's words about towns; she mentioned Mr. Spring- 
 rove as attending to her garden. It could not be that Edward 
 was the man! that Miss AldclyfTe had planned to reveal her 
 rival thus! 
 
 "Arc you going to be married soon?" she inquired, with a 
 steadiness the result of a sort of fascination, but apparently of 
 indifference. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 113 
 
 "Not very soon — still, soon." 
 
 "Ah — ha. In less than three months?" said Cytherca. 
 
 "Two." 
 
 Now that the subject was well in hand, Adelaide wanted no 
 more prompting. "You won't tell anybody if I show you some- 
 thing?" she said with eager mystery. 
 
 "Oh no, nobody. But does he live in diis parish?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Nothing proved yet. 
 
 "What's his name?" said Cytherea, flatly. Her breath and 
 heart had begun their old tricks, and came and went hotly. 
 Miss Hinton could not see her face. 
 
 "What do you think?" said Miss Hinton. 
 
 "George?" said Cytherea, with deceitful agony. 
 
 "No," said Adelaide. "But now, you shall see him first; 
 come here;" and she led the way upstairs into her bedroom. 
 There, standing on the dressing-table in a little frame, was the 
 unconscious portrait of Edward Springrove. 
 
 "There he is," JNIiss Hinton said, and a silence ensued. 
 
 "Are you very fond of him?" continued the miserable Cy- 
 therea ai length. 
 
 "Yes, of course I am," her companion replied, but in the 
 tone of one who lived in Abraham's bosom all the year, and 
 was therefore untouched by solemn thought at the fact. "He's 
 my cousin — a native of this village. We were engaged before 
 my fathers death left me so lonely. I was only twenty, and a 
 much greater belle than I am now. We know each other 
 thoroughly, as you may imagine. I give him a little sermoniz- 
 ing now and then." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, it's only in fun. He's very naughty sometimes — not 
 really, you know — but he will look at any pretty face wdien he 
 sees it." 
 
 Storing up this statement of his susceptibility as another 
 item to be miserable upon when she had time, "How do you 
 know that?" Cytherea asked, with a swelling heart. 
 
 "Well, you know hovv^ things do come to \vomien's ears. He 
 used to live at Creston as an assistant architect, and I found out 
 that a young giddy thing of a girl, who lived there somewhere, 
 took his fancy for a day or two. But I don't feel jealous at all 
 
114 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 jealous. And it was a mere flirtation — she was too silly for 
 him. He's fund of rowing;, and kindly pave her an airing for 
 an cvcningf or two. I'll warrant they talked the most umniti- 
 gated rubbish ujider the sun — all shallowness and pastime, just 
 as everything; is at watering; places — neither of them caring a 
 bit for the other — she giggling like a goose all the time — " 
 
 C'oncentrated essence of woman i)ervaded the ro )m rather 
 than air. "She tlidn't! and 'twasn't shallowness!" Cytherca burst 
 out with brimming eyes. " 'Twas deep deceit on one siile. and 
 entire confidence on the other — yes. it was!" The ])ent-up 
 emotion had swollen and swollen inside the young thing till the 
 dam couKi no longer embay it. The instant the words were 
 out she woulil have given worlds to have been able to recall 
 them. 
 
 "Do you know her — or him?" said Miss Hinton, starting 
 with suspicion at the warmth shown. • 
 
 The two women had now lost their personality quite. Tiiere 
 was the same keen brightness of eye, the same movement of 
 nioutli, the same mind in both, as they looke<l doubtiiigly 
 and excitedly at each other. As is invariably the case with 
 women where a man they care for is the subject of an excitement 
 among them, the situation abstracted the differences whicii dis- 
 tinguished them as intlividuals. and left only the properties com- 
 mon to them as atoms of a sex. 
 
 Cytherea caught at the chance aflforded her of not betraying 
 herself. "Yes, 1 know her," she said. 
 
 "Well," said Miss 1 linton. "I am really vexed if my speaking 
 so lightly of any friend of yours has hurt your feelings, but — " 
 
 "()h, never mind," Cytherea returned; "it doesn't matter, Miss 
 I linton. I think I must leave you now. I have to call at 
 other places. Yes, I must go." 
 
 Miss Hinton, in a perplexed state of mind, showed her visitor 
 ]iolitelv downstairs to the door. Here Cytherea bade her a 
 luirried adieu, and flitted down the garden into the lane. 
 
 She persevered in her duties with a wayward pleasure in 
 giving herself misery, as was her wont. Mr. Springrove's name 
 was next on the list, and she turned toward his dwelling, the 
 Three Tranters Inn. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 § 3. Four to five p. m. 
 
 The cottages along Carriford village street were not so close 
 but that on one side or other of the road was always a hedge 
 of hawthorn or privet, over or through which could be seen 
 gardens or orchards rich with produce. It was about the 
 middle of the early apple harvest, and the laden trees were 
 shaken at intervals by the gatherers; the soft pattering of the 
 falling crop upon the grassy ground being diversified by the 
 loud rattle of vagrant ones upon a rail, hencoop, basket, or 
 lean-to roof, or upon the rounded and stooping backs of the 
 collectors — mostly children, who would have cried bitterly at 
 receiving such a smart blow from any other quarter, but smil- 
 ingly assumed it to be but fun in apples. 
 
 The Three Tranters Inn, a many-gabled, medieval building, 
 constructed almost entirely of timber, plaster, and thatch, 
 stood close to the line of the roadside, almost opposite the 
 churchyard, and was connected with a row of cottages on the 
 left by thatched outbuildings. It was an uncommonly charac- 
 teristic and handsome specimen of the genuine roadside inn 
 of bygone times; and standing on the great highway to the 
 southwest of England (which ran through Carriford), had in its 
 time been the scene of as much of what is now looked 
 upon as the romantic and genial . experience of stage coach 
 traveling as any halting-place in the country. The railway had 
 absorbed the whole stream of traffic which formerly flowed 
 through the village and along by the ancient door of the inn, 
 reducing the empty-handed landlord, who used only to farm a 
 few fields at the back of the house, to the necessity of eking 
 out his attenuated income by increasing the extent of his agri- 
 cultural business if he would still maintain his social standing. 
 Next to the general stillness pervading the spot, the long line of 
 outbuildings adjoining the house was the most striking and sad- 
 dening witness to the passed-away fortunes of the Three 
 Tranters Inn. It was the bulk of the original stabling, and 
 where once the hoofs of twoscore horses had daily rattled over 
 the stony yard, to and from the stalls within, thick grass now 
 grew, while the line of roofs — once so straight — over the 
 decayed stalls, had sunk into vast hollows till they seemed like 
 the cheeks of toothless age. 
 
 On a green plot at the other end of the building grew two or 
 
IIG DESPERATi: Hi:.MEDIi:.S. 
 
 three larj^e, wide-spreading elm trees, from which the sign was 
 suspended — representing tliree men called traiiters (irregular 
 carriers), standing siile by side, and exactly alike to a liair's 
 breadth, the grain of the wot^d and joints of tlie boards being 
 visible througli the thin paint depicting their forms, which were 
 still further disfigured by red stains running downward from 
 the rusty nails above. 
 
 Under the trees now stood a cider mill and press, and upon 
 the spot sheltered by the boughs were gathered Mr.'Springrovc 
 himself, his men, the parish clerk, two or three other men, 
 grinders and supcniumeraries. a woman with an infant in her 
 arms, a flock of j)igeons, and some little boys with straws in 
 their mouths, endeavoring whenever the men's backs wer ■ 
 turned to get a sip of the sweet juice issuing from the vat. 
 
 lulwartl Springrove the elder, the landlord, now more par- 
 ticularly a farmer, and for two months in the year a cider-maker, 
 was an emjiloyer of labor of the old school, who worked himself 
 among his men. He was now engaged in packing the pomace 
 into horsehair bags with a rammer, and Gad Weedy, his man, 
 was occupied in slioveling up more from a tub at his side. The 
 shovel shone like silver from the action of the juice, and ever 
 and anon, in its motion to and fro, caught the rays of the declin- 
 ing sun and reflected them in bristling stars of light. 
 
 Mr. Springrove had been too young a man when the pristine 
 days of the Three Tranters had departed forever to have much 
 of the host left in him now. He was a poet with a rough skin: 
 one whose sturdiness was more the result of external circum- 
 stances than of intrinsic nature. Too kindly constitutioned to 
 be very ])rovident, he was yet not imprudent. He had a quiet 
 humorousness of disposition, not out of keeping with a fre- 
 quent melancholy, the general expression of his countenance 
 being one of abstraction. Like Walt Whitman he felt as his 
 years increased. 
 
 "I foresee too much; it means more than I thought." 
 
 On the present occasion he wore gaiters and a leathern 
 apron, and worked with his shirt-sleeves rolled up beyond his 
 elbows, disclosing solid and fleshy rather than muscular arms. 
 They were stained by the cider, and two or three brown apple- 
 pips from the pomace he was b.andling were to be seen sticking 
 on them here and tliere amomr tlic hairs. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 117 
 
 The Other prominent figure was that of Richard Crickett, the 
 parish clerk, a kind of Bowklerized rake, who ate only the 
 quantity of a woman, and had the rheumatism in his left hand. 
 The remainder of the group, brown-faced peasants, wore smock- 
 frocks embroidered on the shoulders with hearts and diamonds, 
 .and were girt round their middle with a strap, another being 
 worn round the right wrist. 
 
 "And have you seen the steward, Mr. Springrove?" said the 
 clerk. 
 
 "Just a glimpse of him; but 'twas just enough to show me 
 that he's not here for long." 
 
 "Why m't that be?" 
 
 "He'll never stand the vagaries of the female figure holden 
 the reins — not he." 
 
 "She d' pay en well," said a grinder; "and money's money." 
 
 "Ah — 'tis; very much so," the clerk replied. 
 
 "Yes, yes, naibor Crickett," said Springrove, "but she'll flee 
 in a passion — all the fat will be in the fire — and there's an end. 
 . . . . Yes, she is a one," continued the farmer, resting, 
 raising his eyes, and reading the features of a distant apple. 
 
 "She is," said Gad, resting too (it is wonderful how prompt 
 a journeyman is in following his master's initiative to rest), and 
 reflectively regarding the ground in front of him. 
 
 "True; a one is she," the clerk chimed in, shaking his head 
 ominously. 
 
 "She has such a temper," said the farmer, "and is so willful 
 too. You may as well try to stop a footpath as stop her when 
 she has taken anything into her head. I'd as soon grind green 
 crabs all day as live wi' her." 
 
 "'Tis a temper she hev, 'tis," the clerk replied, "though I be a 
 servant of the church that say it. But she isn't going to flee in 
 a passion this time." 
 
 The company waited for the continuation of the speech, as 
 if they knew from experience the exact distance off it lay in the 
 future. 
 
 The clerk swallowed nothing as if it were a great deal, and 
 then went on, "There's some'at between them; mark my words, 
 naibors — there's some'at between 'em." 
 
 "D'ye mean it?" 
 
 "I d' know it. He came last Saturday, didn't he?" 
 
 "'A did, truly," said Gad Weedy, at the same time taking an 
 
lis DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 apple from the hopper of the mill, eating- a piece, and flinging; 
 back the remainder to be ground up for cider. 
 
 "I le went to church a-Sundav," said the clerk again. 
 
 -A did." 
 
 '•Anil she kept her eye upon en all the service, her face 
 flickerin' between red and white, but never st(^ppin' at either." 
 
 Mr. Si)ringrove nodded, and went to the press. 
 
 "Well," said the clerk, "you don't call her the kind o' woman 
 to make mistakes in just trotten through the weekly service o' 
 God? Why. as a rule she's as right as I be myself." 
 
 Mr. Springrove nodded again, and gave a twist to the screw 
 of the press, followed in the movement by Gad at the other side; 
 the two grinders expressing by looks of the greatest concem 
 that, if 5liss AldclyfFe were as right at church as the clerk, 
 she must be right indeed. 
 
 "Ves, as right in the ser\'ice o' God as I be myself," repeated 
 the clerk, adding length to such a solemn sound, like St. 
 Cecilia. "I'ut last Sunday, when we were in the tenth command- 
 ment, says she, incline our hearts to keep this law.' says she, 
 wlien 'twas 'Laws in our hearts we beseech thee.' all the church 
 through. Her eye was upon him — she was quite lost — 'Hearts 
 to keep this law,' says she; she was no more than a mere shad- 
 der at that tenth time — a mere shadder. You mi't ha' mouthed 
 across to her, 'Laws in our hearts we beseech thee.' fifty times 
 over — she'd never ha' noticed ye. She's in love wi' the man, 
 that's what she is." 
 
 "Then she's a bigger stunpoll than I took her for," said Mr. 
 Springrove. "Why she's old enough to be his mother." 
 
 "The row 'ill be between her and that young curly-wig. 
 you'll see. She won't run the risk of that pretty face bein' near." 
 
 "Clerk Crickett, I'd fancy you'd know everytliing about every- 
 body." said Gad. 
 
 "Well so's," said the clerk modestly. "I do know a little. It 
 comes to me." 
 
 "And I d' know where from." 
 
 "Ah." 
 
 "That wife o' thine. She's an entertainen woman, not to 
 speak disrespectfully." 
 
 "She is; and a wimien one. Look at the husbands she've 
 had — God bless her!" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 119 
 
 "I wonder you could stand third in that Hst, Clerk Crickett," 
 said Mr. Springrove. 
 
 "Well, 't has been a power o' marvel to myself often- 
 times. Yes, matrimony d' begin 'Dearly beloved,' and ends 
 wi' 'Amazement,' as the prayer-book says. But what could I 
 do, naibor Springrove? 'Twas ordained to be. Well do I re- 
 member what your poor lady said to me when I had just 
 married. 'Ah, Mr. Crickett,' says she, 'your wife will soon settle 
 you as she did her other two : here's a glass o' rum, for I shan't 
 see your poor face this time next year.' I swallered the rum, 
 called again next year, and said, 'Mrs. Springrove, you gave me 
 a glass o' rum last year because I was going to die — here I be 
 alive still, you see.' 'Well said, clerk! Here's two glasses for 
 you now then,' says she. 'Thank you, mem,' I said, and swal- 
 lered the rum. Well, dang my old sides, next year I thought I'd 
 call again and get three. And call I did. But she wouldn't 
 give me a drop o' the commonest. 'No, clerk,' says she, 'you 
 are too tough for a woman's pity.' .... Ah, poor soul, 
 'twas true enough. Here be I that was expected to die alive 
 and hard as a nail, you see, and there's she moulderen in her 
 grave." _ ^ . , . 
 
 "I used to think 'twas your wife's fate not to have a liven 
 husband when I sid 'em die off so," said Gad. 
 
 "Fate? Bless thy simplicity, so 'twas her fate; but she 
 struggled to have one, and would, and did. Fate's nothen be- 
 side a woman's schemen !" 
 
 "I suppose, then, that fate is a he, like us, and the Lord, and 
 the rest o' 'em up above there," said Gad, lifting his eyes to the 
 sky. 
 
 "Hullo! Here's the young woman comen that we were 
 a-talken about by-now," said a grinder, suddenly interrupting. 
 "She's comen up here, as I be alive!" 
 
 The two grinders stood and regarded Cytherea as if she had 
 been a ship tacking into a harbor, nearly stopping the mill in 
 their new interest. 
 
 "Stylish accouterments about the head and shoulders, to my 
 thinken," said the clerk. "Sheenen curls, and plenty o' 'em." 
 
 "If there's one kind of pride more excusable than another 
 in a young woman, 'tis been proud of her hair," said Mr. 
 Springrove. 
 
 "Dear man! — the pride there is only a small piece o' the 
 
120 DESPERATE RE.IEDIES. 
 
 whole. I warrant now, thouj^h she can show such a fig-urc, she 
 ha'n't a stick o' furniture to call her own." 
 
 "Come, Clerk Crickett. lot the ni?itl be a maid while she is a 
 maid," replied r'arnicr Sprinj^rove chivalrously. 
 
 "Oh," replied the servant of the church, "I've nothing to say 
 against it — oh, no: 
 
 " 'Tlie chimney-sweeper's daughter Sue, 
 As I have heard declare, O. 
 Although she's neither sock nor shoe 
 Will curl and deck her hair, O.' " 
 
 Cytherea was rather disconcerted at finding that the gradual 
 cessation of the chopi)ing of the mill was on her account, and 
 still more when she saw all the cider-makers' eyes fixed upon her 
 except Mr. Springrove's, whose natural delicacy restrained him. 
 She neared tlie plot of grass, but instead of advancing farther, 
 hesitated on its border. 
 
 Mr. Springrove perceived her embarrassment, which was 
 relieved when she saw his old-established figure coming across 
 to her, wiping his hands in his apron. 
 
 "I know your errand, Mi«;sie." he said, "and am glad to see 
 you and attend to it. I'll step indoors." 
 
 "If you are busy I am in no hurry for a minute or two." 
 said Cytherea. 
 
 "Then if so be you really wouldn't mind we'll wring ch^wn 
 this last filling to let it drain all night?" 
 
 "Not at all. 1 like to see you." 
 
 "We are only just grindcn down the early pickthongs and 
 griffins," continued the farmer, in a half-apologetic tone for 
 being caught cider-making by any well-dressed lady. "They 
 rot as black as a chimney-crook if we keep 'em till the regulars 
 turn in." As he spoke he went back to the press, Cytherea 
 keeping at his elbow. "I'm later than I sh(nild have been by 
 rights," he continued, taking up a lever for propelling the screw, 
 and beckoning to the men to come forwarcl. "The truth is, my 
 son Edward had promised to come to-day, and I made prepara- 
 tions; but instead of him comes a letter: 'London, September 
 the eighteenth. Dear Father,' says he, and went on to tell me he 
 couldn't. It threw me out a bit." 
 
 "Of course." said Cytherea. 
 
 "He's got a place a b'lieve?" said the clerk, drawing near. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 121 
 
 "No, poor mortal fellow, no. He tried for this one here, 
 you know, but couldn't manage to get it. I don't know tlie 
 rights o' the matter, but willy-nilly they wouldn't have him for 
 steward. Now mates, form in line." 
 
 Springrove, the clerk, the grinders, and Gad, all ranged them- 
 selves behind the lever of the screw, and walked round like 
 soldiers wheeling. 
 
 "The man that the old quean hev got is a man you can hardly 
 get upon your tongue to gainsay, by the look o' en," rejoined 
 Clerk Crickett. 
 
 "One o' them people that can continue to be thought no 
 worse o' for stealen a horse than another man for looken over 
 hedge at en," said a grinder. 
 
 "Well, he's all there as steward, and is quite the gentleman 
 — no doubt about that." 
 
 "So would my Ted ha' been, for the matter o' that," the farmer 
 said. 
 
 "That's true: 'a would, sir." 
 
 "I said, I'll give Ted a good education if it do cost me my eyes, 
 and I would have." 
 
 "Ay, that you would so," said the chorus of assistants, sol- 
 emnly. 
 
 "But he took to books naturally, and cost very little; and 
 as a wind-up the women folk hatched up a match between en 
 and his cousin." 
 
 "When's the wedden to be, Mr. Springrove?" 
 
 "Uncertain — but soon, I suppose. Edward, you see, can do 
 anything pretty nearly, and yet can't get a straightforward 
 liven. I wish sometimes I had kept en here, and let pro- 
 fessions go. But he was such a one for the prent." 
 
 He dropped the lever in the hedge, and turned to his visitor, 
 
 "Now then, Alissie, if you'll come in-doors, please." 
 
 Gad Weedy looked with a placid criticism at Cytlierea as she 
 withdrew with the farmer. 
 
 "I could tell by the tongue o' her that she didn't take her 
 degrees in our country," he said, in an undertone. 
 
 "The railways have left you lonely here," she observed, when 
 they were in-doors. 
 
 .Save the withered old flies, which were quite tame from the 
 solitude, not a being was in the house. Nobody seemed to 
 
122 DESPERATE REMEDIES, 
 
 have entered it since the last passenger had been called out to 
 mount the last statue coach that had run by. 
 
 "Yes, the iiui and I secni almost a pair of fossils," the farmer 
 replied, looking- at the room and then at himself. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Si)ringTOve." said Cythcrca, suddenly recollecting 
 herself; "I am much obliged to you for reconnnending me to 
 Miss AldclyfTc." She began to warm toward the old man; 
 there was in him a gentleness of disposition which reminded her 
 of her own father. 
 
 "Recommending? Not at all, Miss. Ted — that's my son — 
 Ted said a fellow clerk of his had a sister who wanted to be 
 doing something in the world, and I mentioned it to the house- 
 keeper, that's all. Ay, 1 miss my son very much." 
 
 She kept her back to the window that he might not see her 
 rising color. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, "sometimes I can't help fcelen uneasy 
 about en. You know he seems not made for a town life 
 exactly; he gets very queer over it sometimes, I think. Perhaps 
 he'll be better when he's married to Adelaide." 
 
 A half-impatient feeling arose in her. like that which possesses 
 a sick person when he hears a recently struck hour struck again 
 by a slow clock. She had lived farther on. 
 
 "Everything depends ui)on wiicther he loves her," she said, 
 tremulously. 
 
 "He used to — he doesn't show it so much now: but that's 
 because he's older. You sec, it was several years ago they first 
 walked together as young man and young woman. She's 
 altered, to), from what she was wiicn he first coorted her." 
 
 "How, sir?" 
 
 "Oh, she's more sensible by half. When he used to write to 
 her she'd creep up the lane, and look back over her shoulder, 
 and slide out the letter, and kiss it, and look over one shoulder 
 and t'other again, and read a word and stand in thought looken 
 at the hills and seen none. Then the cuckoo would cry — away 
 the letter would slip, and she'd start a span wi' fright at the 
 mere bird, and have a red skin before the quickest man among 
 y(ui could say, 'Blood, rush up.'" 
 
 1 Ic came forward with the money and dropped it into her 
 hand. His thoughts were still with Edward, and he aliscntly 
 toftk her little fingers in his as he said, earnestly and ingen- 
 uouslv: 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 123 
 
 '■ 'Tis SO seldom I get a gentlewoman to speak to that I can't 
 lielp speaken to you, Miss Graye, on my fears for Edward; I 
 sometimes am afraid that he'll never get on — that he'll die poor 
 and despised under the worst mental conditions, a keen sense 
 of haven been passed in the race by men whose brains are 
 nothen to his own, all through his seen too far into things — 
 been discontented with makeshifts — thinken o' perfection in 
 things, and then sickened that there's no such thing as perfec- 
 tion. I shan't be sorry to see him marr>% since it may settle 
 him down and do him good. . . . Ay, we'll hope for the 
 best." 
 
 He let go her hand and accompanied her to the door, saying, 
 "If you should care to walk this way and talk to an old man 
 once now and then it will be a great delight to him. Miss 
 Graye. Good-evenen to ye. . . . Ah, look! a thunder- 
 storm is brewen — be quick home. Or shall I step up with 
 you?" 
 
 "No, thank you, Mr. Springrove. Good-evening," she said 
 in a low voice and hurried away. One thought still possessed 
 her: Edward had trifled with her love. 
 
 § 4. Five to six p. in. 
 
 She followed the road into a bower of trees, overhanging it 
 so densely that the path appeared like a rabbit's burrow, and 
 presently reached a side entrance to the park. The clouds rose 
 more rapidly than the farmer had anticipated ; the sheep moved 
 in a trail, and complained incoherently. Livid gray shades, 
 like those of the modern French artists, made a mystery of the 
 remote and dark parts of the vista, and seemed to insist upon a 
 suspension of breath. Before she was half-way across the park 
 the thunder nnnbled distinctly. 
 
 The direction in which she had to go would take her close 
 by the old manor-house. 
 
 The air was perfectly still, and between each low rumble of 
 the thunder behind she could hear the roll of the waterfall before 
 her, and the creak of the engine among the bushes hard by it. 
 Hurrying on, with a growing dread of the gloom and of the 
 approaching storm, she drew near the Old House, now rising 
 before her against the dark foliage and sky in tones of strange 
 whiteness. 
 
124 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 On tlie flight of steps, which clescendctl from a terrace in from 
 to the level (»f the park, stood a man. lie appeared, partly from 
 the relief the position gave to his figure, ami partly from fad. 
 to be of towering height. lie was dark in outline, and wa- 
 looking at the sky, with his hands behind him. 
 
 It was necessary for Cytherea to pass directly across the line 
 t)f his front. She felt so reluctant to do this that she was about 
 to turn under the trees out of the path and enter it again at a 
 point beyond the Old House; but he had seen her, and she came 
 on mechanically, unconsciously averting her face a little, and 
 dropping her glance to the ground. 
 
 Her eyes unswervingly lingered along the path until they fell 
 upon another path branching in a right line from the path she 
 was pursuing. It came from the steps of the Old Mouse. "I 
 am exactly opposite him now," she tliought, "and his eyes are 
 going through me." 
 
 A clear, masculine voice said at the same instant: 
 
 "Are you afraid?" 
 
 She, interpreting his question by her feelings at the moment, 
 assumed himself to be the object of fear, if any. ''I don't think 
 I am," she stammered. 
 
 He seemed to knowthat she thought in that sense. 
 
 "Of the thunder, I mean," he said; "not of myself." 
 
 .She must turn to him now. "I think it is going to rain." she 
 remarked for the sake of saying something. 
 
 He could not conceal his suqjrise and admiration of her face 
 and iiearing. He said courteously: "It may possibly not rain 
 before you reach the house, if you are going there." 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "May 1 walk up with you? It is lonely under the trees. " 
 
 "Xo." I'earing his courtesy arose from a belief that he was 
 addressing a woman of higher station than was hers, she added: 
 "I am Miss Aldclyffe's companion. I don't mind the loneli- 
 ness." 
 
 "Oh. Miss Aldclyffe's coinpanion. Then will you be kind 
 cni>ugh to take a subscription to her? She sent to me this after- 
 noon to ask me to become a subscriber to her society, and I was 
 out. Of course I'll subscribe if she wishes it. I take a great 
 interest in the society." 
 
 "Miss .XhldyfTe will be glad to hear that. I know." 
 
 "Yes: let me see — what socictv did she sav it was? I am 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 125 
 
 afraid I haven't enough money in my pocket, and yet it would 
 be a satisfaction to her to have practical proof of my wilUngness. 
 I'll get it, and be out in one minute." 
 
 He entered the house, and was at her side again within the 
 time he had named. "This is it," he said pleasantly. 
 
 She held up her hand. The soft tips of his fingers brushed 
 the palm of her glove as he placed the money within it. She 
 wondered why his fingers should have touched her. 
 
 "I think after all," he continued, "that the rain is upon us, 
 and will drench you before you reach the house. Yes; see 
 there." 
 
 He pointed to a round wet spot as large as a nasturtium leaf, 
 which had suddenly appeared upon the v/hite surface of the 
 step. 
 
 "You had better come into the porch. It is not nearly night 
 yet. The clouds make it seem later than it really is." 
 
 Heavy drops of rain, followed immediately by a forked flash 
 of lightning and sharp rattling thunder, compelled her, willingly 
 or no, to accept his invitation. She ascended the steps, stood 
 beside him just within the porch, and for the first time obtained 
 a series of short views of his person, as they waited there in 
 silence. 
 
 He was an extremely handsome man, well-formed and well- 
 dressed, of an age which seemed to be two or three years less 
 than thirty. 
 
 The most striking point in his appearance was the wonderful, 
 almost preternatural clearness of his complexion. There was 
 not a blemish or speck of any kind to mar the smoothness of 
 its surface or the beauty of its hue. Next, his forehead was 
 square and broad, his brows straight and firm, his eyes pene- 
 trating and clear. By collecting the round of expressions they 
 gave forth, a person who theorized on such matters would have 
 imbibed the notion that their owner was of a nature to kick 
 against the pricks; the last man in the world to put up with a 
 position because it seemed to be his destiny to do so; one who 
 took upon himself to resist fate. with the vindictive determina- 
 tion of a Theomachist. Eyes and forehead both would have 
 expressed keenness of intellect too severely to be pleasing had 
 their force not been counteracted by the lines and tone of the 
 lips. These were full and luscious to a surprising degree, pos- 
 sessing a v.'onian-like softness of curve, and a ruby redness so 
 
i:g desperate remedies. 
 
 intense, as to testify stronjjly to much susceptibility of heart 
 where feminine beauty was concerned — a susceptibility that 
 might require all the ballast of brain with which he had pre- 
 viously been creilited to confine within reasonable channels. 
 
 His manner was elegant; his speech well-finished and un- 
 constrained. 
 
 The break in their discourse, which had been caused by tliv 
 jK-al of thunder, was unbroken by either for a minute or two, 
 during which the ears of both seemed to be absently following 
 the low roar of the waterfall as it became gradually rivaled 1>y 
 the increasing rush of rain upcMi the trees and herbage of the 
 grove. After her short looks at him Cytherea had turned her 
 head toward the avenue for awhile, and now, glancing back 
 again for an instant, she discoveretl that his eyes were engaged 
 in a steady, though delicate, regard of her face and form. 
 
 At this moment, by reason of the narrowness of the porch, 
 their dresses touched, and remained in contact. 
 
 His clothes are something exterior to every man; but to a 
 woman her dress is part of her body; its motions arc all present 
 to her intelligence if not to her eyes; no man knows how his 
 coat-tails swing. By the slightest hyperbole it may be said tlK-.t 
 her dress has sensation. Crease but the very Ultima Thule of 
 fringe or flounce, and it hurts her as much as i)inching her. 
 Delicate antennae, or feelers, bristle on every outlying frill. G- • 
 to the uppermost: she is there; tread on the lowest: the fai;- 
 creature is there almost before you. 
 
 Thus the touch of clothes, which was nothing to Manston. 
 sent a thrill through Cytherea. seeing, moreover, that he was o{ 
 the nature of a mysterious stranger. She looked out again at 
 the storm, but still felt him. At last to escape the sensation she 
 moved away, though by so doing it was necessary to advance a 
 little into the rain. 
 
 "Look, the rain is coming into the porch upon you." he said. 
 "Step inside the door." 
 
 Cytherea hesitated. 
 
 "Perfectly safe. I assure you." he added, laughing and holding 
 the door open. You shall see what a state of disorganization I 
 am in — boxes on boxes, furniture, straw, crockery in ever>- for:u 
 of transposition. An old woman is in the back-quarters some- 
 where beginning to put things to rights. . . . You knov. 
 the inside of the house, I dare say?" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 127 
 
 "I have never been in." 
 
 "Oh, well, come along. Here, you see, they have made a door 
 through; here they have put a partition dividing the old hall 
 into two, one part is now my parlor; there they have put a 
 plaster ceiling, hiding the old chestnut carved roof because it 
 was too high and would have been chilly for me; you see, being 
 the original hall, it was open right up to the top, and here the 
 lord of the manor and his retainers used to meet and be merry 
 1)y the light from the monstrous fire which shone out from that 
 nionstrous lire-place, now narrowed to a mere nothing for my 
 grate, though you can see the old oudine still. I almost wish I 
 could have had it in its original state." 
 
 "With more romance and less comfort." 
 
 "Yes, exactly. Well, perhaps the wish Is not deep-seated. 
 You will see how the things are tumbled in anyhow, packing- 
 cases and all. The only piece of ornamental furniture yet un- 
 packed is this one." 
 
 "An organ?" 
 
 "Yes, an organ. I made it myself, except the pipes. I opened 
 the case this afternoon to commence soothing myself at once. 
 It is not a very large one, but quite big enough for a private 
 house. You play, I dare say?" 
 
 "The piano. I am not at all used to an organ." 
 
 "You would soon acquire the touch for an organ, though it 
 would spoil your touch for the piano. Not that that matters a 
 great deal. A piano isn't much as an instrument." 
 
 "It is the fashion to say so now. I think it is quite good 
 enough." 
 
 "That- isn't altogether a right sentiment about things being 
 good enough." 
 
 "No — no. Wliat I mean is, that the men who despise pianos 
 do it as a rule from their teeth, merely for fashion's sake, because 
 cleverer men have said it before them — not from the experience 
 of their ears." 
 
 Now Cytherea all at once broke into a blush atthe conscious- 
 ness of a great snub she had been guilty of in her eagerness to 
 explain herself. He charitably expressed by a look that he did 
 not in die least mind her blunder, if it were one; and this atti- 
 tude forced him into a position of mental superiority which 
 vexed her. 
 
 "I play for my private amusement only," he said. "I have 
 
 
 
12S DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 never learned scientificallv. All I know is what I taught niv- 
 self." 
 
 The thunder, lij^ditning. and rain had now increased to a 
 terrific force. The clouds, from which darts, forks, zigzags, and 
 balls of fire continually sprang, did nut appear to be more than 
 a hundred yards above their heads, and every now and then a 
 flash and a peal made gaps in the steward's descriptions. He 
 went toward the organ, in the iniilst of a volley which seemed 
 to shake the aged house from foundations to chimney. 
 
 "You arc not going to i)lay nov.-, are you?" said Cytherea 
 uneasily. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Why not now?" he said. "Von can't go home, 
 and therefore we may as well be anuised, if you don't mintl sit- 
 ting on this box. The few chairs I have unpacked arc in the 
 vither room." 
 
 Without waiting to see whether she sat down or not, he 
 turned to the organ and began extemporizing a harmony which 
 meandered through every variety of expression of which the 
 instrument was capable. Presently he ceased and began search- 
 ing for some music-book. 
 
 "What a splendid flash!" he said, as the lightning again shone 
 in through the mullioned window, which, of a proportion to 
 suit the whole extent of the original hall, was much too large 
 for the present room. The thunder pealed again. Cytherea. 
 in spite of herself, was frightened, not only at the weather, but 
 at the general unearthly weirdncss which seemed to surround 
 her there. 
 
 "I wish I — the lightning wasn't so bright. Do you think it 
 will last long?" she said timitlly. 
 
 "It can't last much longer," he murmured, without turning, 
 running his fingers again over the keys. "But this is nothing." 
 he cvMitinued, suddenly stt»pping and regarding her. "It seems 
 brighter because of the deep shadow under those trees yonder. 
 Don't mind it; now look at me — look in my face — now." 
 
 He had faced the window, looking fixedly at the sky with his 
 dark, strong eyes. She seemed compelled to do as she was 
 bidden, and looked in the too delicately beautiful face. 
 
 The flash came; but he did not turn or blink, keeping his 
 eyes fixed as firmly as before. "There," he said, turning to her, 
 "that's the way to look at lightning." 
 
 "Oh, it might have blinded you," she exclaimed. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 129 
 
 "Nonsense — not lightning of this sort — I shouldn't have 
 stared at it if there had been danger. It is only sheet lightning 
 now. Now, will you have another piece? Something from an 
 oratorio this time?" 
 
 "No, thank you — I don't want to hear it while it thunders so." 
 But he had commenced without heeding her answer, and she 
 stod motionless again, marveling at the wonderful indifference 
 to all external circumstances which was nov/ evinced by his 
 complete absorption in the music before him. 
 
 "Why do you play such saddening chords?" she said when he 
 next paused. 
 
 "H'm — because I like them, I suppose," he said lightly. 
 "Don't you like sad impressions sometimes?" 
 
 "Yes, sometimes, perhaps." 
 
 "When you are full of trouble." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't I when I am full of trouble?" 
 
 "Are you troubled?" 
 
 "I am troubled." He said this so thoughtfully and abruptly 
 — so abruptl}' that she did not push the dialogue further. 
 
 He nov/ played more powerfully. Cytherea had never heard 
 music in the completeness of full orchestral power, and the tones 
 of the organ, which reverberated with considerable effect in the 
 comparatively small space of the room, heightened by the ele- 
 mental strife of light and sound outside, moved her to a degree 
 out of proportion to the actual power of the mere notes, prac- 
 ticed as was the hand that produced them. The varying strains 
 — now loud, now soft; simple, complicated, Aveird, touching, 
 grand, boisterous, subdued; each phase distinct, yet modulat- 
 ing into the next with a graceful and easy flow — shook and bent 
 her to themselves, as a gushing brook shakes and bends a 
 shadow cast across its surface. The power of the music did not 
 show itself so much by attracting her attention to the subject of 
 the piece, as by taking up and developing as its libretto the poem 
 of her own life and soul, shifting her deeds and intentions from 
 the hands of her judgment, and holding them in its own. 
 
 She was swayed into emotional opinions concerning the 
 strange man before her; new impulses of thought came with 
 new harmonies, and entered into her with gnawing thrill. A 
 dreadful flash of lightning then, and the thunder close upon it. 
 
130 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 She found licrsclf involuntarily shrinking up beside him, and 
 looking- witli parted lips at his face. 
 
 He turned his eyes and saw her emotion, which greatly 
 increased the ideal element in her expressive face. She was in 
 the state in which woman's instinct to conceal has lost its power 
 over her impulse to tell ; and he saw it. Rending his handsome 
 face over her till his lips almost touched her ear, he murmured 
 without breaking the harmonies: 
 
 "Do you very much like this piece?" 
 
 '■\'ery nnich indeed," she sai(l. 
 
 "I couUl see you were affected by it. I will copy it for you." 
 
 "Thank you much." 
 
 "I will bring it to the house to you to-morrow. Who shall I 
 ask for?" 
 
 "Oh, not for nic. Don't bring it," she said, hastily. "I 
 shouldn't like you to." 
 
 "Let me see — to-morrow evening at seven or a few minutes 
 past I shall be passing the waterfall on my way home. I couUl 
 conveniently give it you there, and I should like you to have it." 
 
 He modulated into the pastoral symphony, still looking in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "\'cr\- well," she .said, to get rid of the look. 
 
 The storm had by this time considerably decreased in vio- 
 lence, and in seven or ten minutes the sky partially cleared, the 
 clouds around the western horizon becoming lighted up with 
 the rays of the sinking sun. 
 
 Cytherea drew a long breath of relief and j^repared to go 
 away. She was full of a distressing sense that her detention in 
 the old manor-house, and the ac(iuaintanccship it had set on 
 foot, was not a thing she wished. It was such a foolish thing 
 to have been excited and dragged into frankness by the wiles of 
 a .stranger. 
 
 "Allow me to come with you." he said, accompanying her t.> 
 the door, and again showing by his behavior how powerfully 
 he was impressed with her. His influence over her had van- 
 ished with the nmsical chords, and she turned her back upon 
 him. "May T come?" he repeated. 
 
 "Xo, no. The distance is not three hundred yards — it is not 
 really necessary, thank you," she said quietly. And wishing 
 him good-evening, without meeting his eyes, she went down the 
 >-'«ps. leaving i>i'ii << -nding at the door. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 131 
 
 '"Oh, how is it that man has so fascinated me!" was all she 
 could think. Her own self, as she had sat spellbound before 
 him, was all she could see. Her gait was constrained, from 
 the knowledge that his eyes were upon her until she had passed 
 the hollow by the waterfall, and by ascending the rise had be- 
 come hidden from his view by the boughs of the overhanging 
 trees. 
 
 § 5. S/x to seven p. VI. 
 
 The wet, shining road threw the western glare into her eyes 
 with an invidious luster which rendered the restlessness of her 
 mood more wearying. Her thoughts flew from idea to idea 
 without asking for the slightest link of connection between one 
 and another. One moment she was full of the wild music and 
 stirring scene with Alanston — the next, Edward's image rose 
 before her like a shadowy ghost. Then Manston's black eyes 
 seemed piercing her again, and the reckless, voluptuous mouth 
 appeared bending to the curves of his special words. What 
 could be those troubles to which he had alluded? Perhaps Miss 
 Aldclyfife was at the bottom of them. Sad at heart she paced 
 on: her life was bewildering her. 
 
 On coming into Miss Aldclyffe's presence, Cytherea told her 
 of the incident, not without a fear that she would burst into one 
 of her ungovernable fits of temper at learning Cytherea's slight 
 departure from the programme. But, strangely to Cytherea, 
 Miss Aldclyffe looked delighted. The usual cross-examina- 
 tion followed: 
 
 "And so you were with him all that time?" said the lady, with 
 assumed severity. 
 
 "Yes, I was." 
 
 "I did not tell you to call at the Old House twice." 
 
 "I didn't call, as I have said. He made me come into the 
 porch?" 
 
 "What remarks did he make, do you say?" 
 
 "That the lightning was not so bad as I thought." 
 
 "A very important remark, that. Did he" — she turned her 
 glance full upon the girl, and eying her searchingly, said : 
 
 "Did he say anything about me?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Cytherea, returning her gaze calmly, "ex- 
 cept that I w^as to give you the subscription." 
 
x,2 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Vou are quite sure?" 
 
 •Quite." 
 
 ■ I believe you. Did he say anything striking or strange about 
 himself?" 
 
 "Uiily one thing — that he was troubled." 
 
 "Troubled !" 
 
 After saying the word. Miss AldclyfFe relapsed into silence. 
 Such behavior as this had ended, on most previous occasions, 
 by her making a confession, and Cytherea expected one now. 
 But for once she was mistaken ; nothing more was said. 
 
 When she had returned to her room she sat down and penned 
 a farewell letter to Edward Springrove, as little able as any 
 other excitable and brimming young woman of nineteen t<) 
 feel the wisest and only dignified course at that juncture was to 
 do nothing at all. She told him that, to her painful suq:)rise, 
 she had learned that his engagement to another woman was a 
 matter of notoriety. She insisted that all honor bade him marry 
 his early love — a woman far better than her unworthy self, who 
 only dcser\'ed to be forgotten, and begged him to remember 
 that he was not to see her face again. She upbraided him for 
 levity and cruelty in meeting her so frequently at Creston. and 
 above all in stealing the kiss from her lips on the last evening of 
 the water excursions. "I never, never can forget it," she said, 
 and then felt a sensation of having done her dutyj ostensibly 
 persuading herself that her reproaches and conmiands were of 
 such a force that no man to whom they were uttered could ever 
 approach her more. 
 
 Yet it was all unconsciously said in words which betrayed a 
 lingering tenderness of love at every unguarded turn. Like 
 Beatrice accusing Dante from the chariot, try as she might to 
 play the superior being who contemned such mere eye-scnsu- 
 ousness, she betrayed at every point a pretty woman's jealousy 
 of a rival, and covertly gave her old lover hints for excusing 
 himself at each fresh indictment. 
 
 This done. Cytherea, still in a practical mood, upbraided her- 
 self with weakness in allowing a stranger like .^Ir. Manston 
 to influence her as he had that evening. What right on earth 
 had he to suggest so suddenly that she might meet him at the 
 waterfall to receive his music? She would have given much to 
 be able to annihilate the ascendency he had obtained over her 
 during that extraordinary interval of melodious sound. Not 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 133 
 
 being- able to endure the notion of his Hving a minute longer in 
 the belief he was then holding, she took her pen and wrote to 
 him also: 
 
 "Knap water House, September 20th. 
 "I find I can not meet you at seven o'clock by the waterfall 
 as I promised. The emotion I felt made me forgetful of 
 realities, 
 
 "C. Graye." 
 
 A great statesman thinks several times, and acts; a young 
 lady acts, and thinks several times. When, a few minutes later, 
 she saw the postman carry off the bag containing one of the 
 letters, and a messenger with the other, she, for the first time, 
 asked herself the question whether she had acted very wisely in 
 writing to either of the two men who had so influenced her. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF TEN WEEKS. 
 
 § I . From S(-pttmb<-r the tiiu-nty-first to the viiddlc of 
 Novetnber. 
 
 Tlic foremost figure within Cytherca's horizon, exclusive of 
 tlie inmates of Knapwater House, was now the steward, Mr. 
 Manston. It was impossible that they should live within a 
 quarter of a mile of each other, be enj^aged in the same sen'ice, 
 and attend the same church, without meeting at some spot or 
 another, twice or thrice a week. On Sundays, in her pew, when 
 by chance she turned her head, Cytherea found his eyes waiting 
 desirously for a glimpse of hers, and at first, more strangely, 
 the eyes of Miss AldclyfTc furtively resting on him. On comitig 
 out of church he freciucntly walked beside Cytherea till she 
 reached the gate at which residents in the house turned into 
 the shrubbery. By degrees a conjecture grew to a certainty. 
 She knew that he loved her. 
 
 lUtt this strange fact was connected with the development of 
 his love — he was palpably making the strongest efforts to sub- 
 due, or at least to liidc, the weakness, and as it sometimes 
 seemed, rather from his own conscience than from surrounding 
 eyes. Hence she found that not one of his encounter? with her 
 was anything more than the result of ]nire accident. He made 
 no advances whatever: without avoiding her, he never sought 
 her: the words he had whispered at their first interview now 
 proved themselves to be quite as much the result of imguarded 
 impulse as was her answer. Something held him back, bound 
 his ihipulsc down, but she saw that it was neither pride of his 
 person nor fear that she would refuse him — a course she imhesi- 
 tatingly resolved to take should he think fit to declare himself. 
 She was interested in him and his man-elous beauty, as she 
 might have been in some fascinating panther or leopard — for 
 some undcfinablc reason she shrank from him. even while she 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 135 
 
 admired. The keynote of her nature, a warm "precipitance of 
 soul" as Coleridge happily writes it, which Manston had so 
 directly pounced upon at their very first interview, gave her now 
 a tremulous sense of being in some way in his power. 
 
 The state of mind was on the whole a dangerous one for a 
 young and inexperienced woman; and perhaps the circum- 
 stance which, more than any other, led her to cherish Edward's 
 image now, was that he had taken no notice of the receipt of her 
 letter, stating that she discarded him. It was plain then, she 
 said, that he did not care deeply for her, and she thereupon could 
 not quite leave ofif caring deeply for him: 
 
 -Ingenium mulierum, 
 
 Nolunt iibi velis, ubi nolis cupiunt ultro." 
 
 The month of October passed, and November began its 
 course. The inhabitants of the village of Caeriford grew weary 
 of supposing that Miss Aldclyffe was going to marry her 
 steward. Xew whispers arose and became very distinct (though 
 they did not reach Miss Aldclyfife's ears) to the effect that the 
 steward was deeply in love with Cytherea Graye. Indeed, the 
 fact became so obvious that there was nothing left to say about 
 it except that their marriage would be an excellent one for both; 
 for her in point of money — and for him in point of love. 
 
 As circles in a pond grow wider and wider, the next fact, 
 which at first had been patent only to Cytherea herself, in due 
 time spread to her neighbors, and they too wondered that he 
 made no overt advances. By the middle of November a theory 
 made up of a combination of the other two was received with 
 general favor: its substance being, that a guilty intrigue had 
 been commenced between Manston and Miss Aldclyfife, some 
 years before, when he was a very young man, and she still in 
 the enjoyment of some womanly beauty, but now that her 
 seniority began to grow emphatic she was becoming distasteful 
 to him. His fear of the efTect of the lady's jealousy would, they 
 said, thus lead him to conceal from her his new attachment to 
 Cytherea. Almost the only woman who did not believe this 
 was Cytherea herself, on unmistakable grounds, which were 
 hidden from all besides. It was not only in public, but even 
 more markedly in secluded places, on occasions when gallantry 
 woukl have been safe from all discovery, that this guarded 
 
136 DESPERATi. lu. vi i.nIES. 
 
 o)ur!>c of action was pursued, all the strcnrtli of a ron^niniii- 
 passion buniintj in his eyes the while. 
 
 § 2. November the eighteenth. 
 
 It was on a Friday in this month of November that Owen 
 Grave paid a visit to his sister. 
 
 Ilis zealous integrity still retained for him the situation at 
 Creston, and in order that there should he as little interruption 
 as possible to his duties there he had decided not to come to 
 Knapwater till late in the afternoon, and to return to Creston by 
 the first train the next morning. Miss Aldclyffc having made a 
 point of frequently offering Iiim lodging for an unlimited 
 period, to the great pleasure of Cytherea. 
 
 He reached the house about four o'clock, and ringing the bell 
 of the side entrance, asked of the page who answered it for Miss 
 Graye. 
 
 When Graye spoke the name of his sister, Maiiston, who was 
 just coming out from an interview with Miss Aldclyffe, passed 
 him in the vestibule and heard the question. The steward's face 
 grew hot, and he secretly clinched his hands. He half crossed 
 the court, then turned his head and saw that the lad still stood 
 at the door, though Owen had been shown into the house. 
 Manston went back to him. 
 
 "Who was that man?" he said. 
 
 "I don't know, sir." 
 
 "Has he ever been here before?"' 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "How many times?" 
 
 " i'hree." 
 
 ■ \'ou are sure you don't know him?" 
 I think he is Miss Grave's brother, sir." 
 Then why the devil didn't you say so before?" Manston 
 exclaimed and again went on his way. 
 
 "Of course that was not the man of my dreams — of course 
 it couldn't be!" he said to himself. "That I should be such a 
 fool — such an utter fool. Good God ! to allow a girl to influence 
 me like this, day after day, till I am jealous of her very brother. 
 A lady's dependent, a waif, a helpless thing entirely at the mercy 
 of the world: \c ;. curse it, llint is in<t \\h\- it i^: that f;ict of her 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 137 
 
 being- so helpless against the blows of circumstances which 
 renders her so deliciously sweet." 
 
 He paused opposite his house. Should he get his horse 
 saddled? No. 
 
 He went down the drive and out of the park, having started 
 to proceed to an outlying spot on the estate concerning some 
 draining, and to call at the potter's yard to make an arrange- 
 ment for the supply of pipes. But a remark which Miss Ald- 
 clyffe had dropped in relation to Cytherea was what still occu- 
 pied his mind, and had been the immediate cause of his excite- 
 ment at the sight of her brother. Miss Aldclyffe had meaningly 
 remarked during their intercourse that Cytherea was wildly in 
 love with Edward Springrove in spite of his engagement to his 
 cousin Adelaide. 
 
 "How I am harassed!" he said aloud, after deep thought for 
 half an hour, while still continuing his walk with the greatest 
 vehemence. "How I am harassed by these emotions of mine!" 
 He calmed himself by an effort. "Well, duty after all it shall 
 be, as nearly as I can effect it. 'Honesty is the best policy,' " 
 with v/hich vigorously uttered resolve he once more attempted 
 to turn his attention to the prosy object of his journey. 
 
 The evening had closed in to a dark and dreary night when 
 the steward came from the potter's door to proceed homeward 
 again. The gloom did not tend to raise his spirits, and in the 
 total lack of objects to attract his eye, he soon fell to intro- 
 spection as before. It was along the margin of turnip fields 
 that his path lay, and the large leaves of the crop struck flatly 
 against his feet at every step, pouring upon them the rolling 
 drops of moisture gathered upon their broad surfaces ; but the 
 annoyance was unheeded. Next reaching a fir plantation, he 
 mounted the stile and followed the path into the midst of the 
 darkness produced by the overhanging trees. 
 
 After walking under the dense shade of the inky boughs for 
 a few minutes he fancied he had mistaken the path, which as yet 
 was scarcely familiar to him. This was proved directly after- 
 ward by his coming at right angles upon some obstruction, 
 which careful feeling with outstretched hands soon told him to 
 be a rail fence. However, as the wood was not large, lie 
 experienced no alarm about finding the path again, and with 
 some sense of pleasure halted awhile against the rails, to listen 
 to the intensely melancholy yet musical wail of the fir-tops, and 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 as the wind passed on, the prompt moan of an adjacent planta- 
 tion in reply. He conld just dimly discern the airy summons 
 of the two or three trees nearest him wavinj? restlessly back- 
 ward and forward, and stretching out their buufijhs like hairy 
 arms into the dull sky. The scene, from its striking and em- 
 jihatic loneliness, began to grow congenial to his mood; all of 
 human kind seemed at the antipodes. 
 
 A sudden rattle on his right hand caused him to start from 
 his reverie and turn in that direction. 
 
 There, before him, he saw rise up from among the trees a 
 fountain of sparks and smoke, then a red glare of light coming 
 forward toward him; then a flashing panorama of illuminatecl 
 oblong i)ictures; then the old darkness, more impressive than 
 ever. 
 
 The surjirise, which had owed its origin to his imperfect 
 accjuaintance with the topographical features of that end of the 
 estate, had been but momentary. 
 
 The disturbance, a well-known one to dwellers by a railway, 
 was caused by the 6:50 down-train passing along a shallow cut- 
 ting in the midst of the wood innnediately below where he 
 stood, the driver having the fire-door of the engine open at the 
 niinute of going by. The train had, when passing him, al- 
 ready considerably slackened speed, and now a whistle was 
 heard announcing that Carriford-Road station was not far in 
 its van. 
 
 r.ut contrary to the natural order of things, the discovery 
 that it was only a commonplace train had not caused Manston 
 to stir from his position of facing the railway. 
 
 If the 6:50 down-train had been a flash of forked lightning 
 transfixing him to the earth, he could scarcely have remainecl 
 in a more trance-like state. He still leaned against the railings, 
 his right hand still contimicd pressing on his walking-stick, liis 
 weight on one foot, his other heel raised, his eyes wide open 
 toward the blackness of the cutting. The only movement in him 
 was a slight dropping of the lower jaw. separating his previon*;- 
 ly closed lips a little way, as when a strange conviction rushes 
 home suddenly upon a man. 
 
 A new surprise, not nearly so trivial as the first, had taken 
 possession of him. 
 
 It was on this account. At one of the illuminated windows 
 of the second-class carriage in the series gone by he had seen 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 139 
 
 a pale face, reclining upon one hand, the light from the lamp 
 falling full upon it. The face was a woman's. 
 
 At last he moved; gave a whispering kind of whistle, ad- 
 justed his hat and walked on again. 
 
 He was cross-questioning himself in every direction as to 
 how a piece of knowledge he had carefully concealed had found 
 its way to another person's intelligence. "How- can my address 
 have become known," he said at length audibly. "Well, it is a 
 blessing I have been circumspect and honorable, in relation to 
 that — yes, I will say it, for once, even if the words choke me, 
 that darling of mine, Cytherea, never to be my own, never. I 
 suppose all will come out now. All!" The great sadness of his 
 utterance proved that no mean force had been exercised upon 
 himself to sustain the circumspection he had just claimed. 
 
 He wheeled to the left, pursued the ditch beside the railway 
 fence, and presently emerged from the wood, stepping into a 
 road which crossed the railway by a bridge. 
 
 As he neared home, the anxiety lately written in his face, 
 merged by degrees into a grimly humorous smile, which hung 
 long upon his lips, and he quoted aloud a line from the Book of 
 Jeremiah: 
 
 "A woman shall compass a man." 
 
 § 3. Novernber the 7iinetec7ith. Daybi'eak. 
 
 Before it was light the next morning, two little naked feet 
 pattered along the passage in Knapwater House, from which 
 Owen Grave's bedroom opened, and a tap was given upon his 
 door. 
 
 *'Owen, Owen, are you awake?" said Cytherea in a whisper 
 through the keyhole. "You must get up directly, or you'll miss 
 the train." 
 
 When he descended to his sister's little room, he found her 
 there already waiting with a cup of cocoa and a grilled rasher 
 on the table for him. A hasty meal was dispatched in the inter- 
 vals of putting on his overcoat and finding his hat, and they 
 then went softly through the long-deserted passages, the kitchen 
 maid who had prepared their breakfast walking before them 
 with a lamp held high above her head, which cast long wheeling 
 shadows down corridors intersecting the one they followed, 
 their remoter ends being lost in the darkness. The door was 
 unbolted and they stepped out. 
 
140 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Owen had preferred walking; to the station to accepting tlie 
 pony-carriage which Miss AldclyfTc had placed at liis disposal, 
 liaving a morbid hurrnr of giving trouble to people above him 
 in rank, and especially to their men-servants, who looked down 
 upon him as a hybrid monster from regions far below the 
 touch-my-hat stage of supremacy. Cythert-a ])roposetl to walk 
 a little way with him. 
 
 "I want to talk to you as long as I can," she said tenderly. 
 
 r.rother and sister then emerged by the heavy door into the 
 drive. The feeling and aspect of the hour were precisely similar 
 to those under which the steward had left the house the eveni:ig 
 previous, excepting that apparently unearthly reversal of 
 natural sequence, which is caused by the worUl getting lighter 
 instead of darker. "The tearful glinuncr of the languid dawn" 
 was just sufficient to reveal to them the melancholy red leaves, 
 lying thickly in the channels by the roadside, ever and anon 
 loudly tapped on by heavy drops of water, which the boughs 
 above had collected from the foggy air. 
 
 They passed the Old House engaged in a deep conversation, 
 and had proceeded about twenty yards by a cross-route, in tlu- 
 direction of the turnpike road, when the form of a woman 
 emerged from a porch of the building. 
 
 She was wra])ped in a gray waterproof cloak, the hood of 
 which was drawn over her head and closely round her face — so 
 closely that her eyes were the sole features uncovered. 
 
 With this one exception of her appearance there, the most 
 perfect stillness and silence pervaded the steward's residence 
 from basement to chimney. Not a shutter was open; not a 
 twine of smoke came forth. 
 
 Underneath the ivy-covered gateway she stood still and lis- 
 tened for two, or possibly three minutes, till she became con- 
 scious of others in the park. 
 
 Seeing the pair she stepped back, with the apparent inten- 
 tion of letting them pass out of sight, and evidently wishing to 
 avoid observation. But looking at her watch, and retuniing it 
 rapidly to her pocket, as if surprised at the lateness of the hoin% 
 she hurried out again and across the park by a still more oblique 
 line than that traced by Owen and his sister. 
 
 These in the meantime had gone into the road, and were 
 walking along it as the woman came up on the other side of the 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 141 
 
 boundary hedge, looking for a gate or stile by which she, too, 
 might get off the grass upon hard ground. 
 
 Their conversation, of which every word was clear and dis- 
 tinct in the still air of the dawn to the distance of a quarter of a 
 mile, reached her ears and withdrew her attention from all other 
 matters and sights whatsoever. Thus arrested she stood for 
 an instant as precisely in the attitude of Imogen by the cave of 
 Belarius as if she had studied the position from the play. 
 
 When they had advanced a few steps she followed them in 
 some doubt, still screened by the hedge. 
 
 "Do you believe in such odd coincidences?" said Cytherea. 
 
 ■'How do you mean, believe in them? They occur some- 
 times." 
 
 "Yes, one will occur often enough — that is, two disconnected 
 events will fall strangely together by chance, and people scarce- 
 ly notice the fact beyond saying, 'Oddly enough it happened 
 that so and so were the same,' and so on. But when three such 
 events coincide without any apparent reason for the coinci-, 
 dcnce it seems as if there must be invisible means at work. You 
 see, three things falling- together in that manner are ten times 
 as singular as two cases of coincidence which are distinct." 
 
 "Well, of course: what a mathematical head you have, Cy- 
 therea. But I don't see so much to marvel at in your case. 
 That the man who kept the public-house in which Miss Ald- 
 clyffe fainted, aiid who found out her name and position, lives 
 in this neighborhood, is accounted for by the fact that she got 
 him the berth to stop his tongue. That you came here was 
 simply owing to Springi-ove." 
 
 "Ah, but look at this. Miss Aldclyfife is the woman our father 
 first loved, and I have come to Miss Aldclyffe's; you can't get 
 over that." 
 
 From these premises, she proceeded to argue like an elderly 
 divine on the designs of Providence which were apparent m 
 such conjunctures, and went into a variety of details connected 
 with Miss Aldclyffe's history. 
 
 "Had I better tell Miss Aldclyffe that I know all this?" she 
 inquired at last. 
 
 "What's the use?" he said. "Your possessing the knowledge 
 does no harm; you are at any rate comfortable here, and a con- 
 fession to Aliss Aldclyffe might only irritate her. No, hold your 
 tongue, Cytherea." 
 
T' DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 I fancy I should have been tempted to tell her, too." C;. 
 tlicrea went on, "had I not found out there exists a very odd. 
 almost imi)erceptil)le, and yet real connection of some kind 
 between her and Mr. Manston, which is more than tliat of a 
 mutual interest in the estate." 
 
 "She is in love with him," exclaimed Owen, "fancy that." 
 
 "Ah — that's what everybody says who has been keen enough 
 to notice anything'. I said so at first. And yet now I cannot 
 pcrsuatle myself that she is in love witli him at all." 
 
 "Why can't you?" 
 
 "She doesn't act as if she were. She isn't — you will know I 
 don't say it from any vanity, Owen — she isn't the least jealous 
 of me." 
 
 "Perhaps she is in some way in his power." 
 
 "Xo — she is not. He is openly advertised for and chosen 
 from forty or fifty who answered the advertisement without 
 knowing whose it was. And since he has been here she has 
 certainly done nothing to compromise herself in any way. 
 Besides, why should she have brought an enemy here at all?" 
 
 "Then she luust have fallen in love w'ith him. You know as 
 well as I do, Cyth, that with women there's nothing between 
 the two poles of emotion toward an interesting male acquaint- 
 ance. 'Tis either love or hate." 
 
 They walked for a few minutes in silence, when Cytherea's 
 eyes accidentally fell upon her brother's feet. 
 
 "Owen," she said, "do you know that there is something 
 unusual in your manner of walking?" 
 
 "What is it like?" he asked. 
 
 "I can't quite say, except that you don't walk so regularly r.-- 
 you used to." 
 
 The woman behind the hedge, who had still continued to 
 dog their footsteps, made an impatient movement at this change 
 in their conversation, and looked at her watch again. Yet she 
 seemed reluctant to give over listening. 
 
 ""^'es," Owen returned with assumed carelessness. "I do know 
 it. I tliink the cause of it is that mysterious pain which comes 
 just above my ankle sometimes. You remember tlie first time 
 I had it? The day we went by steam-packet to Lewborne P.ay. 
 when it hindered me from coming back to you and compelled 
 me to sleep with the gatcman we liave l)een talking about." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. ' 143 
 
 "But is it anything; serious, dear Owen?" Cytherea exclaimed 
 with some alarm. 
 
 "Oh, nothing- at all. It is sure to go off again. I never find 
 a sign of it when I sit in the office." 
 
 Again their unperceived companion made a gesture of vexa- 
 tion, and looked at her watch. 
 
 But the dialogue still flowed on upon this new subject, and 
 showed no sign of returning to its old channel. 
 
 Gathering up her skirt decisively, she renounced all further 
 hope, and hurried along the ditch until she had dropped into a 
 valley, and came to a gate which was beyond the view of 
 those coming behind. This she softly opened, and came out 
 upon the road, following it in the direction of the railway 
 station. 
 
 Presently she heard Owen Graye's footsteps in her rear, his 
 quickened pace implying that he had parted from his sister. 
 The woman thereupon increased her rapid walk to a run, and 
 in a few minutes safely distanced her fellow-traveler. 
 
 The railway at Carriford Road consisted only of a single line 
 of rails; and the short local down-train by which Owen was 
 going to Creston was switched on to a siding while the first up- 
 train passed. Graye entered the waiting-room, and the door 
 being open he listlessly observed the movements of a woman 
 wearing a long gray cloak, and closely hooded, who had asked 
 for a ticket for London. 
 
 He followed her with his eyes on to the platform, saw her 
 waiting there and afterward stepping into the train; his recol- 
 lection of her ceasing with the perception. 
 
 § 4. Eii:;ht to ten o^lock a. m. 
 
 ]\Irs. Crickett, twice a widow, and now the parish clerk's wife, 
 a fine-framed, scandal-loving Vv'oman, with a peculiar corner to 
 her eye by which, without turning her head, she could see what 
 people were doing almost behind her, lived in a cottage stand- 
 ing nearer to the old manor-house than any other in the village 
 of Carriford, and she had on that account been temporarily 
 engaged by the steward, as a respectable kind of char^Yoman 
 and general servant, until a settled arrangement could be made 
 with some person as permanent domestic. 
 
 Every morning, therefore, Mrs. Crickett, immediately she 
 10 
 
144 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 li^'lUi;d tlic fire in her own cottage and prepared the breakfast 
 for herself and husband, wended her way to the Old House lo 
 do the same for Mr. Manstun. Then she went home to break- 
 fast, and when the steward had partaken of his, and had gone 
 out on his rounds, she returned again to clear away, make his 
 bed, and put the house in order for the day. 
 
 On the morning of Owen Graye's departure, she went 
 through the operations of her first visit as usual — proceeded 
 home to breakfast, and went back again, to perform those of 
 the second. 
 
 Entering Manston's empty bedroom, with her hands on h«. i" 
 hips, she indifferently cast her eyes upon the bed, previously t« > 
 dismantling it. 
 
 While she looked, she thought in an inattentive manner: 
 "What a remarkaljly quiet sleeper Mr. Manston must be!" The 
 upper bedclothes were flung back, certainly, but the bed was 
 scarcely disarranged. "Anybody would almost fancy," she 
 thought, "that he had made it himself after rising." 
 
 But these evanescent thoughts vanished as they had come, 
 and Mrs. Crickett set to work; she dragged off the counter- 
 pane, blankets, and sheets, and stooped to lift the pillows. Thu> 
 stooping, something arrested her attention ; she looked closely 
 — more closely — very closely. "Well, to be sure!" was all slie 
 could say. The clerk's wife stood as if the air had suddenly 
 set to amber, and held her fixed like a fly in it. 
 
 The object of her wonder was a trailing brown hair, \cry little 
 less than a yard long, which proved it clearly to be a hair from 
 some woman's head. She drew it off the pillow and took it to 
 the window; there holding it out she looked fixedly at it, and 
 became utterly lost in meditation; her gaze, which had first 
 actively settled on the hair involuntarily dropped past its object 
 by degrees and was lost on the floor, as the inner vision 
 obscured the outer one. 
 
 She at length moistened her lips, returned her eyes to the 
 hair, wound it round her fingers, put it in some paper, and 
 secreted the whole in her pocket. Mrs. Crickett's thoughts were 
 with her work no more that morning. 
 
 She searched the house from roof-tree to cellar for some other 
 trace of feminine existence or appurtenance; but none w^as to 
 be found. 
 
 She went out into the yard, coal-hole, stable, hay-loft, green- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 145 
 
 house, fowl-house and piggery, and still there was no sign. 
 Coming in again, she saw a bonnet, eagerly pounced upon it, 
 and found it to be her own. 
 
 Hastily completing her arrangements in the other rooms, 
 she entered the village again, and called at once upon the post- 
 mistress, Mrs. Leat, an intimate friend of hers, and a female who 
 sported several unique diseases and afBictions. 
 
 Mrs. Crickett unfolded the paper, took out the hair, and 
 waved it high before the perplexed eyes of Mrs. Leat, whi,ch 
 immediately mooned and wandered after it like a cat's. 
 
 "\Miat is it?" said Mrs. Leat, contracting her eyelids, and 
 stretching out toward the invisible object a narrow bony hand 
 that would have been an unparalleled delight to the pencil of 
 Carlo Crivelli. 
 
 "You shall hear," said Mrs. Crickett, complacently gather- 
 ing up the treasure into her own fat hand; and the secret was 
 then solemnly imparted, together with the accident of its dis- 
 covery. 
 
 A shaving glass was taken down from a nail, laid on its 
 back in the middle of a table by the windovv^, and the hair spread 
 carefully out upon it. The pair then bent over the table from 
 opposite sides, their elbow^s on the edge, their hands support- 
 ing their heads, their foreheads nearly touching, and their eyes 
 upon the hair. 
 
 "He ha' been mad a'ter my lady Cytherea," said Mrs. Crickett, 
 "and 'tis my very belief the hair is — " 
 
 "No, 'tidn'. Hers id'n so dark as that," said Mrs. Leat. 
 
 "Mrs. Leat, you know me, and have known me for many 
 years," said the clerk's wife parenthetically. 
 
 "True, I have, Mrs. Crickett." 
 
 "And you know that as the faithful wife of a servant of the 
 church I should be glad to think as you do about the hair. Mind 
 I don't wish to say anything against Miss Grave, but this I do 
 say, that I believe her to be a nameless thing, and she's no 
 right to stick a moral clock in her face and deceive the country 
 in such a way. If she wasn't of a bad stock at the outset, she 
 w^as bad in the planten, and if she wasn't bad in the planten, she 
 was bad in the growen, and if not in the. grow^en," she's made 
 bad by what she's gone through since." 
 
 "But I have another reason for knowing it idn' hers," said 
 Mrs. Leat. 
 
 lO 
 
14G DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Ah! I know wliosc it is, then — Miss Aldclyffc's, upon my 
 song!*' 
 
 '* 'Tis the color of hers, but 1 do not bcHcvc it to be hers, 
 either." 
 
 "Don't you beheve what they d' say al)out her and him?" 
 
 "I say nothcn about that; but you dt)n't know what I know 
 about his letters." 
 
 "What about 'cm?" 
 
 "He d' post all his letters here except them for one person, 
 and they he d' take to Creston. My son is in Creston postofficc, 
 as you know, and as he d' sit at desk he can see over the blind 
 of the window all the people who d' post letters. Mr. Mansion 
 d' unvariably go there wi' IcttL^rs for that person; my boy il" 
 know 'em by sight well enough now." 
 
 "Is it a she?" 
 
 " 'Tis a she." 
 
 "What's lier name?" 
 
 "The little stunpoll of a fellow couldn't call to mind more 
 than that "tis Miss Somebody of London. However, that's the 
 woman who ha' been here, depend upon't — a wicked one — some 
 poor street-creature escaped from Sodom, I warrant ye." 
 
 "Only to find herself in Gomorrah, seemingly." 
 
 "That may be." 
 
 "Xo, no, Mrs. Leat, this is clear to me. 'Tis no miss who 
 came here to see our steward last night — whenever she came, 
 or wherever she vanished. Do you think he would Jia' let a 
 miss, get here how she could, go away how she would, without 
 breakfast or help of any kind?" 
 
 Mrs. Leat shook her head — Mrs. Crickett looked at her 
 solemnly. 
 
 "Mrs. Leat, I ask you, have you. or ha'n't you known me 
 many years?" 
 
 "True, I have." 
 
 "And I say I d' know she had no help of any kind. T know it 
 was so, for the grate was quite cold when I touched it this 
 morning with these fingers, and he was still in bed. No, he 
 wouldn't take the trouble to write letters to a girl and then 
 treat her so ofTf-hand as that. There's a tie between 'em stronger 
 than feclen. She's his wife." 
 
 "He married! The Lord so 's, what shall we hear next. Do 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 147 
 
 he look married now? His are not the abashed eyes and hps 
 of a married man." 
 
 "Perhaps she's a tame one — but she's his wife still." 
 
 "No, no; he's not a married man." 
 
 "Yes, yes; he is. I've had three, and I ought to know." 
 
 "Well, well," said Mrs. Leat, giving way, "whatever may be 
 the truth on't I trust Providence will settle it all for the best, as 
 he always do." 
 
 "Ay, ay, Elizabeth," rejoined Mrs. Crickett with a satirical 
 sigh, as she turned on her foot to go home, "good people like 
 you may say so, but I have always found Providence a different 
 sort of feller." 
 
 § 5. November- the ttventieth. 
 
 It was Miss AldclyfTfe''s custom, a custom originated by her 
 father, and nourished by her own exclusiveness, to unlock the 
 post-bag herself every morning, instead of allowing the duty 
 to devolve on the butler, as was the case in most of the neighbor- 
 ing county families. The bag was brought upstairs each morn- 
 ing to her dressing-room, where she took out the contents, 
 mostly in the presence of her maid and Cytherea, who had the 
 entree of the chamber at all hours, and attended there in the 
 morning at a kind of reception on a small scale, which was held 
 by ]\Iiss Aldclyffe of her namesake only. 
 
 Here she read her letters before the glass, while undergoing 
 the operation of being brushed and dressed. 
 
 "What woman can this be, I wonder?" she said on the morn- 
 ing succeeding that of the last section, " 'London, N!' It is the 
 first time in my life I ever had a letter from that outlandish place, 
 the North side of London." 
 
 Cytherea had just come into her presence to learn if there 
 was anything for herself; and on being thus addressed, walked 
 up to Aliss Aldclyffe's corner of the room to look at the curios- 
 ity which had raised such an exclamation. But the lady, having 
 opened the envelope and read a few lines, put it quickly in her 
 pocket, before Cytherea could reach her side. 
 
 "Oh, 'tis nothing," she said. She proceeded to make general 
 remarks in a noticeably forced tone of sang-froid, from which 
 she soon lapsed into silence. Not another word was said about 
 the letter; she seemed ver^- anxious to get her dressing done 
 and the room cleared. Thereupon Cytherea went away to the 
 
148 DESPERATE UK-MKI'IKS. 
 
 Other window, and a few minulci later left the room to follow 
 her own pursuits. 
 
 It was late when Miss Aldclyffe descended to the breakfast- 
 table, and then she seemed there to no purpose: tea, coffee, 
 eg^gs, cutlets, and all their accessories, were left absolutely un- 
 tasted. The next that was seen of her was when walking up 
 and dtjwn the south terrace, and round the flower-beds; her 
 face was i)alc, and her tread was fitful, and she crumpled a letter 
 in her hand. 
 
 Dimier-time came round as usual; she did not speak ten 
 words, or indeed seem conscious of the meal; for all that 
 Miss Aldclyffe did in the way of eating, dinner might have been 
 taken out as perfect as it was taken in. 
 
 In her own private apartment Miss AldclyflTe again pulled 
 out the letter of the morning. One passage of it ran thus: 
 
 "Of course, being iiis wife, I could publish the fact, and com- 
 pel him to acknowledge me at any moment, notwithstandiiig 
 his threats and reasonings that it will be better to wait. I have 
 waited, and waited again, and die time for such acknowledg- 
 ment seems no nearer than at first. To sjiuw you how patiently 
 I have waited I can tell you that not till a fortnight ago. when 
 by stress of circumstances I had been driven to new lodgings, 
 have I ever assumed my married name, solely 0:1 account of 
 its having been his request all along that I should not. This 
 writing to you, madam, is my first disobedience, and I am jus- 
 tified in it. A woman who is driven to visit her husband like 
 a thief in the night, and then sent away like a street dog; left to 
 get up, unbolt, unbar, and find her way out of the house as she 
 best may. is justified in doing anything. 
 
 "T)Ut should I demand of Iiim a restitution of rights, there 
 would l)e invftlved a publicity which I could not endure, and a 
 noisy scandal flinging my name the length and breadth of the 
 country. 
 
 "What I still prefer to any such violent means is that you 
 reason with him privately, and compel him to bring me home 
 to your parish in a decent and careful manner, in a way that 
 would be adoi)ted by any respectable man whose wife had been 
 living away from him for s<ime time, bv reas<in, say, of peculiar 
 family circumstances which had caused disunion, but not 
 enmity, and who at length was enabled to reinstate her in hi> 
 house. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 149 
 
 "You will, I know, oblige me in this, especially as knowledge 
 of a peculiar transaction of your own, which took place some 
 years ago, has lately come to me in a singular way. I will not 
 at present trouble you by describing how. It is enough, that 
 I alone, of all people living, know all the sides of the story; 
 those of whom I collected it having each only a partial knowl- 
 edge which confuses them and points to nothing. One person 
 knows of your early engagement and its sudden termination; 
 another, of the reason of those strange meetings at inns and 
 coffee-houses; another, of what was sufficient to cause all this, 
 and so on. I know what fits one and all the circumstances like 
 a key, and shows them to be the natural outcrop of a rational 
 (though rather rash) line of conduct for a young lady. You will 
 at once perceive how it w^as that some at least of these things 
 were revealed to me. 
 
 "This knowledge, then, common to, and secretly treasured 
 by us both, is the ground upon which I beg for your friendship 
 and help, with a feeling that you will be too generous to refuse 
 it to me. 
 
 "I may add that, as yet, my husband knows nothing of this, 
 neither need he if you remember my request." 
 
 "A threat — a flat, stinging threat! as delicately wrapped up 
 in words as the woman could do it; a threat from a miserable 
 unknown wretch to an Aldclyffe, and not the least proud mem- 
 ber of the family either! A threat on his account — oh, oh, 
 shall it be?" 
 
 Presently this humor of defiance vanished, and the members 
 of her body became supple again, her proceedings proving that 
 it was absolutely necessary to give way, Aldclyffe as she was. 
 She wrote a short answer to Mrs. Manston, saying civilly that 
 Mr. Manston's possession of such a near relation was a fact 
 quite new to herself, and that she w^ould see what could be done 
 in such an unfortunate affair. 
 
 § 6. November the twenty-first. 
 
 Manston received a message the next day requesting his 
 attendance at the house punctually at eight o'clock the ensuing 
 evening. Miss Aldclyffe was brave and imperious, but with 
 the puipose she had in view she could not look him in the face 
 while daylight shone upon her. 
 
mo DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 The steward was shown into the hbrary. On entering it he 
 was ininifcliately struck with the unusual gloom which pervaded 
 the apartment. The fire was dead and dull, one lamp, and that 
 a comjiaralivcly small one, was burning at the extreme end, 
 leaving the main jjrojiorliim of the lofty and somber room in 
 an artificial twilight, scarcely powerful enough to render visible 
 the titles of the folio and quarto volumes wliich were jammed 
 into the lower tiers of the book-shelves. 
 
 After keeping him waiting for more than twenty minutes 
 (Miss AldclylTe knew that excellent recipe for taking the stiff- 
 ness out of human flesh, and for extracting all pre-arrange- 
 nient from human speech) she entered the room. 
 
 Manston sought her eye directly. The hue of her features 
 was not discernible, but the calm glance she flung at him, from 
 which all attempt at returning his scrutiny was absent, awoke 
 him to the perception that probably his secret was by some 
 means or other known to her; how it had become known he 
 could not tell. 
 
 She drew forth the letter, unfolded it, and held it up to him, 
 letting it hang by one corner from between her finger and 
 thumb, so that the light from the lamp, though remote, fell 
 directly upon its surface. 
 
 "Vou know whose writing this is?" she said. 
 
 lie saw the strokes plainly, instantly resolving to burn his 
 ships and hazard all on an advance. 
 
 "My wife's," he said calmly. 
 
 His cjuiet answer threw her off her balance. She had no more 
 expected an answer than does a preacher when he exclaims fmm 
 the pulpit, "Do you feel your sin?" She had clearly expected a 
 sudden alarm. 
 
 "And why all this concealment?" she said again, her voice 
 rising, as she vainly endeavored to control her feelings, what- 
 ever tliey were. 
 
 "It doesn't follow that, because a man is married, he must 
 tell every stranger of it, madam," he answered, just as calmly 
 as before. 
 
 "Stranger! well, perhaps not; but Mr. Manston, why did you 
 choose to conceal it, I ask again? I have a perfect right to 
 ask this question, as you will perceive, if you consider the ternu 
 of my advertisement." 
 
 ■'1 will tell you. There were two simple reasons. The first 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 151 
 
 was this practical one: you advertised for an nnman-ied man, 
 if you remember?" 
 
 "Of course I remember." 
 
 "Well, an incident suggested to me that I should try for the 
 situation. I was married ; but knowing that in getting an office 
 where there is a restriction of this kind, leaving one's wife be- 
 hind is always accepted as a fulfillment of the article, I left her 
 behind for a while. The other reason is, that these terms of 
 yours afforded me a plausible excuse for escaping (for a short 
 time) tb.e company of a woman I had been mistaken in mar- 
 rying." 
 
 "Mistaken! what was she?" the lady inquired. 
 "A third-rate actress, whom I met with during my stay in 
 Liverpool last summer, where I had gone to fulfill a short 
 engagement with an architect." 
 "VVhere did she come from?" 
 
 "She is an American by birth, and I grew to dislike her when 
 we had been married a week." 
 "She was ugly, I imagine?" 
 "She is not an ugly woman by any means." 
 "Up to the ordinary standard?" 
 
 "Quite up to the ordinary standard, indeed handsome. After 
 a while we quarreled and separated." 
 
 "You did not ill-use her, of course," said Miss Aldclyffe, with 
 a little sarcasm. 
 "I did not." 
 
 "But at any rate,' you got thoroughly tired of her." 
 Manston looked as if he began to think her questions out of 
 place ; however he said quietly, "I did get tired of her. I never 
 told her so, but we separated ; I to comie here, bringing her with 
 me as far as London and leaving her there in perfectly com- 
 fortable quarters; and though your advertisement expressed 
 a single man, I have always intended to tell you the whole trutli ; 
 and this was when I was going to tell it, when your satisfaction 
 with my careful management of your affairs should have provetl 
 the risk to be a safe one to run." 
 She bowed. 
 
 "Then I saw that you were good enough to be interested in 
 my welfare to a greater extent than I could have anticipated or 
 hoped, judging you by the frigidity of other employers, and this 
 caused me to hesitate. I was vexed at the complication of 
 
152 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 affairs. So matters stood until three nights ago; I \sa> iinii 
 walking home from the pottery, and came up to the railway. 
 The down-train came along close to me, and there, sitting at a 
 carriage-window, I saw my wife; she had found out my ad- 
 dress, and had thereupon determined to follow me here. I had 
 not been home many minutes before she came in ; next moniing 
 early she left again — " 
 
 "i3ecause you treated her so cavalierly?" 
 
 " — And as I suppose, wrote to you directly. That's the whole 
 story of her, madam." Whatever were Mansion's real feelings 
 toward the lady wlui had received his e.xjilanation in these 
 supercilious tones, they remained locked within him as within 
 a casket of steel. 
 
 "Did your friends know of your marriage, Mr. Mansion?" 
 she continued. 
 
 "Nobody at all; we kept it secret for various reasons." 
 
 "It is true, then, that as your wife tells me in tiiis letter, she 
 has not passed as' Mrs. Manston till within these last few 
 days?" 
 
 "It is quite true; I was in receipt of a very small and uncer- 
 tain income when we married; and so she continued playing 
 at the tiieater as before our marriage, and in her maiden name." 
 
 "Has she any friends?" 
 
 "I have never heard that she has any in England. She came 
 over here on some theatrical speculation, as one of a company 
 who were going to do mucli, but who never did anything; and 
 here she has remained." 
 
 .\ pause ensued, which was terminated by !Miss Aldclyffe. 
 
 i understand," she said. "Now, though I have no direct 
 right to concern myself with your private affairs (beyond those 
 which arise from vour misleading me and getting the office you 
 hold)—" 
 
 "As to that, madam," he interrupted, rather hotly, "as to com- 
 ing here. I am vexed as much as you. Somebody, a member 
 of the Society of Architects — who, I could never tell — sent to 
 my old address in London your advertisement cut from the 
 paper; it was forwarded to me; I wanted to get away from 
 Liverj^ool, and it seemed as if this was put in my way on pur- 
 pose, by some old friend or other. I answered the advertise- 
 ment certainly, but I was not particularly anxious to come here. 
 nor am I anxious to stav." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 153 
 
 INIiss Aldclyfife descended from haughty superiority to 
 womanly persuasion with a haste which was ahnost hidicrous. 
 Indeed, the Quos ego of the whole lecture had been less the 
 genuine menace of the imperious ruler of Knapwater than an 
 artificial utterance to hide a failing heart. 
 
 "Now, now, Mr. Manston, you wrong me; don't suppose I 
 wish to be overbearing, or anything of the kind ; and you will 
 allow me to say this much at any rate, that I have become 
 interested in your wife, as well as in yourself." 
 
 "Certainly, madam," he said, slowly, like a man feeling his 
 way in die dark. Manston was utterly at fault now. His 
 previous experience of the effect of his form and features upon 
 womankind en masse had taught him to flatter himself that he 
 could account by the same law of natural selection for the 
 extraordinary interest Miss AldclyfTe had hitherto taken in him, 
 as' an unmarried man; an interest he did not at all object to, 
 seeing that it kept him near Cytherea, and enabled him, a man 
 of no wealth, to rule on the estate as if he were its lawful owner. 
 Like Curiiis at his Sabine farm, he had counted it his glory not 
 to possess gold himself, but to have power over her who did. 
 But at this hint of the lady's wish to take his wife under her 
 wing also, he was perplexed: could she have any sinister motive 
 in doing so? But he did not allow himself to be troubled with 
 these doubts, which only concerned his wife's happiness. 
 
 "She tells me," continued Miss Aldclyffe, "how utterly alone 
 in the world she stands, and that is an additional reason why 
 I should sympathize with her. Instead, then, of requesting tlie 
 favor of your retirement from the post, and dismissing your 
 interests altogether, I will retain you as my steward still, on 
 condition that you bring home your wife, and live with her 
 respectably, in short, as if you loved her; you understand. I 
 wish you to stay here, if you grant that everything shall flow 
 smoothly between yourself and her." 
 
 The breast and shoulders of the steward rose, as if an expres- 
 sion of defiance was about to be poured forth; before it took 
 form, he controlled himself, and said in his natural voice: 
 
 "My part of the performance shall be carried out, madam." 
 
 "And her anxiety to obtain a standing in the w^orld insures 
 that hers will," replied Miss Aldclyf=fe. "That will be satisfac- 
 tory, then." 
 
 After a few additional remarks she gently signified that she 
 
154 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 wished to put an end to the interview. The steward took the 
 hint and retired. 
 
 ile felt Vexed and mortified; yet in walkinjj liomeward he 
 was convinced that telhnfi^ the whole truth a? he had dojie. witli 
 the singflc exception of his love for Cytherea (which he tried to 
 hide even frt>in himself), had never served him in better stead 
 than it had that nij^^ht. 
 
 Manston went to his desk and thought of Cytherea's beauty 
 with the bitterest, wildest regret. After the lapse of a few min- 
 utes he calmed himself by a stoical effort and wrote the sub- 
 joined letter to his wife: 
 
 "Knap water, Xov. 21st, 18O4. 
 "Dear Eunice: 
 
 "1 hope you reached London safely after your llighty visit to 
 me. 
 
 "As 1 promised, I have thought over our conversation that 
 night, antl your wish that your coming here should be no 
 longer delayed. After all, it was perfectly natural that you 
 should have sjjoken unkindly as you did, ignorant as you were 
 of the circumstances which bound me. 
 
 "So I have made arrangements to fetch you home at once. 
 It is hardly v.orth while for you to attempt to bring with you 
 any luggage you may have gathered about you (beyond mere 
 clothing). Dispose of superfluous things at a broker's; your 
 bringing them would only make a talk in this parish, and lead 
 people to believe we had long been keeping house separatelv. 
 
 "Will next Monday suit you for coming? You have nothing 
 to do that can occupy you for more than a day or two, as far 
 as I can sec, and the remainder of this week will afford ample 
 time. I can be in London the night before, and we will come 
 down together by the miil-day train. 
 
 "Vdur very affectionate husband. 
 
 "Aeneas Manston. 
 
 ■■\<)w. of course. T shill n.. l-.nger write to you as Mrs. 
 Rondley." 
 
 The address on the envelope was: 
 
 "Mrs. Manston, 
 
 "41 Charles Square, 
 "Hoxton. 
 
 "London, X." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 155 
 
 He took the letter to the house, and it being too late for the 
 country post, sent one of the stablemen with it to Froominster, 
 instead of troubling to go to Creston with it himself as hereto- 
 fore. He had no longer any necessity to keep his condition a 
 secret. 
 
 § 7. Froin the twenty-second to the twcnty-scve^ith of 
 November. 
 
 But the next morning Manston found he had been forgetful 
 of another matter in naming the following Monday to his wife 
 for the journey. 
 
 The fact was this. A letter had just come, reminding him that 
 he had left the whole of the succeeding week open to an im- 
 portant business engagement wuth a neighboring land-agent, 
 at that gentleman's residence thirteen miles off. 
 
 The particular day he had suggested to his wife had, in the 
 interim, been appropriated by his correspondent. The meeting 
 could not now be put off. 
 
 So he wrote again to his wife, stating that business, which 
 could not be postponed, called him away from home on Mon- 
 day, and would entirely prevent him coming all the way to 
 fetch her on Sunday night as he had intended, but that he would 
 meet her at the Carri ford-Road station with a conveyance when 
 she arrived there in the evening. 
 
 The next day came his wife's answer to his first letter, in 
 which she said that she would be ready to be fetched at the time 
 named. 
 
 Having already written his second letter, w^hich was by that 
 time in her hands, he made no further reply. 
 
 The week passed away. The steward had, in the meantime, 
 let it become generally known in the village that he was a mar- 
 ried man, and by a little judicious management, sound family 
 reasons for his past secrecy upon the subject, which were floated 
 as adjuncts to the story, were placidly received; they seemed 
 so natural and justifiable to the unsophisticated minds of ninc- 
 tenths of his neighbors that curiosity in the matter, beyond a 
 strong curiosity to see the lady's face, was well-nigh extin- 
 guished. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF A DAY AND NIGHT. 
 §1. No'i'fmbcr the twctity-ci^ltth. Until ten p. in. 
 
 Monday came, the day named for Mrs. Manston's journey 
 from London to her husband's house; a day of sin£rular ai^I 
 fi:reat events, influencins: the present and future of nearly all 
 the personages whose actions in a complex drama form tlie 
 subject of this record. 
 
 The proceedings of the steward demand the first notice. 
 While taking his breakfast on this particular moniing, the 
 clock pointing to eight, the horse and gig that was to take him 
 to Chettlewood waiting ready at the door, Manston hurricdh- 
 cast his eyes down the column of "liradshaw," which showed 
 the details and duration of the selected train's journey. 
 
 The inspection was carelessly made, the k-af being kept open 
 by the aid of one hand, while the othtr still held his cup of 
 coffee; nuich more carelessly than woultl have been the case 
 had the expected new-comer been Cytlierea Graye instead of his 
 lawful wife. 
 
 He did not perceive, branching from the colunm down which 
 his finger ran, a small twist, called a shunting-line. inserted at a 
 particular place, to imply that at that point the train was divided 
 into two. \\\ tiiis oversight he understood that the arrival of 
 his wife at Carri ford- Road station would not be till late in the 
 evening; by the second half of the train, containing the third- 
 class passengers, and passing two hours and three-quarters later 
 than the previous one. by which the lady, as a second-class 
 passenger, would really l)e brought. 
 
 He then considered that there would be plenty of time for 
 l-im to return from his day's engagement to meet this train. 
 He finished his breakfast, gave proper and precise direction.^ 
 to his servant on the prej^arations that were to l)e made for 
 the lady's reception, jumped into his gig. and drove off to Lord 
 Clavdonfield's at Chettlewood. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 157 
 
 He went along by the front of Knapwater House. He could 
 not help turning to look at what he knew to be the window of 
 Cytherea's room. While he looked, a hopeless expression of 
 passionate love and sensuous anguish came upon his face and 
 lingered there for a few seconds; then, as on previous occa- 
 sions, it was resolutely repressed, and he trotted along the 
 smooth white road, again endeavoring to banish all thought 
 of tiie young girl whose beauty and grace had so enslaved him. 
 
 Thus it was that when, in the evening of the same day, Mrs. 
 ^lanston reached Carriford-Road station her husband was still 
 at Chettlewood ignorant of her arrival, and on looking up and 
 down the platfonii, dreary with autumn gloom and wind, she 
 could see no sign that any preparation whatever had been made 
 for her reception and conduct home. 
 
 The train went on. She waited, fidgeted with the handle of 
 her umbrella, walked about, strained her eyes into the gloom 
 of the chilly night, listened for wheels, tapped with her foot, 
 and showed all the usual signs of annoyance and irritation: 
 he was the more irritated in that this seemed a second and 
 cuhninating instance of her husband's neglect — the first having 
 been shown in his not fetching her. 
 
 Reflecting awhile upon the course it would be best to take, 
 in order to secure a passage to Knapwater, she decided to leave 
 all her luggage, except a carpet-bag, in the cloak-room, and 
 walk to her husband's house, as she had done on her first visit. 
 She asked one of die porters if he could find a lad to go with 
 her and carry her bag: he ofifered to do it himself. 
 
 The porter was a good-tempered, shallow-minded, ignorant 
 man. Mrs. Manston, being apparently in very gloomy spirits, 
 would probably have preferred walking beside him without 
 saying a word; but her companion would not allow silence to 
 continue between them for a longer period than two or three 
 minutes together. 
 
 He had volunteered several remarks upon her arrival, chiefly 
 to the effect that it was very unfortunate Mr. Manston had not 
 come to the station for her, when she suddenly asked him con- 
 cerning the inhabitants of the parish. 
 
 He told her categorically the names of the chief— first the 
 chief possessors of property; then of brains; then of good 
 looks. As first among the latter he mentioned Miss Qlherea 
 Graye. 
 
 11 
 
1:8 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 After gettinjj him to describe her appearance as coniplclcly 
 as lay in liis power, she wormed out of him the statement that 
 everybody had been saying — before Mrs. Manston's existence 
 was heard of — how well the handsome Mr. Manston ami the 
 beautiful Miss Graye were suited for each other as man and 
 wife, and that Miss Aldclyffe was the only one in tlie parish who 
 took no interest in bringing about the match. 
 
 "lie rather liked her, you think?" 
 
 The porter began to think he had been too explicit, and has- 
 tened to correct the error. 
 
 "Oh. no, he doesn't care a bit about her, madam." he said 
 s< 'lonmly. 
 
 Any more than he does about me?" 
 Xot a bit." 
 
 "Then that must be little indeed," Mrs. Manston murmured. 
 She stood still, as if reflecting upon the painful neglect her 
 words had recalled to her mind; then with a sudden impulse, 
 turned round, and walked petulantly a few steps back again in 
 the direction of the station. 
 
 The i)orter stood still and looked suq^rised. 
 
 "I'll ff:;o back again, yes, indeed, I'll go back again!" .<;lu' 
 said plaintively. Then she paused and looked anxiously up and 
 down the deserted road. 
 
 "Xo, I mustn't go back now," she continued in a tone of 
 resignation. Seeing that the porter was watching her. she 
 turned about and came on as before, giving vent to a slight 
 laugh. 
 
 It was a laugh full of character; the low forced laugh which 
 seeks to hide tlie painful perception of a humiliating position 
 under the mask of inditTercnce. 
 
 Altogether her conduct had shown her to be what in fact she- 
 was, a weak, though a calculating woman, one clever to con- 
 ceive, weak to execute: one whose best-laid schemes were for- 
 ever liable to be frustrated by the ineradicable blight of vacilla- 
 tion at the critical hour of action. 
 
 "Oh. if I had only known that all this was going to happen!" 
 she nuirmured again, as they paced along upon the rustlin;^ 
 leaves. 
 
 "What did you sny. madam?" said the porter. 
 
 "Oh. nothing particular; we are getting near the old manor- 
 house bv this time. I imagine?*' 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 159 
 
 "Very near now, madam." 
 
 They soon reached Mansion's residence, round which the 
 wind blew mournfully and chill. 
 
 Passing under the detached gateway, they entered the porch. 
 The porter stepped forward, knocked heavily, and waited. 
 
 Nobody came. 
 
 Mrs. Manston then advanced to the door and gave a different 
 series of rappings — less forcible, but more sustained. 
 
 There was not a movement of any kind inside, not a ray of 
 light visible; nothing but the echo of her own knocks through 
 the passages, and the dry scratching of the withered leaves 
 blown about lier feet upon the floor of the porch. 
 
 The steward, of course, was not at home. Mrs. Crickett, not 
 expecting that anybody would arrive till the time of the later 
 train, had set the place in order, laid the supper-table, and then 
 locked the door, to go into the village and converse with her 
 friends. 
 
 'Ts there an inn in the village?" said Mrs. Manston, after the 
 fourth and loudest rapping upon the iron-studded old door 
 had resulted only in the fourth and loudest echo from the pas- 
 sages inside. 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "Who keeps it?" 
 
 "Farmer Springrove." 
 
 "I will go there to-night," she said decisively. "It is too cold, 
 and altogether too bad, for a woman to wait in the open road 
 on anybody's account, gentle or simple." 
 
 They went down the park and through the gate, into the 
 village of Carriford. By the time they reached the Three 
 Tranters it was verging upon ten o'clock. There, on the spot 
 where twa months earlier in the season the sunny and lively 
 group of villagers making cider under the trees had greeted 
 Cytherea's eyes, was nothing now intelligible but a vast cloak 
 of darkness, from which came the low sough of the elms and the 
 occasional creak of the swinging sign. 
 
 They went to the door, Mrs. Manston shivering; but less from 
 the cold than from the dreariness of her emotion. Neglect is 
 the coldest of winter winds. 
 
 It so happened that Edward Springrove was expected to 
 arrive from London either on that evening or the next, and at 
 the sound of voices, his father came to the door fully expecting 
 11 
 
IflO DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 to sec him. A picture of disappointment seldom witnessed in a 
 man's face was visible in old Mr. Springrove's when he saw that 
 the comer was a stranji^er. 
 
 Mrs. Manston asked for a room, and one that had been pre- 
 pared for Edward was immediately named as beinpf ready 
 f'.r her. another being- adaptable for Edward should he come 
 in. 
 
 Without partaking- of any refreshment, or entering any room 
 downstairs, or even lifting her veil, she walked straigiit along 
 the passage and up to her apartment, the chambermaid pre- 
 ceding her. 
 
 "If Mr. Manston comes to-night," she said, sitting on the bed 
 as she had come in and addressing the woman, "teJl him I can- 
 not see him." 
 N'es. madam." 
 
 I lie woman left the room, and Mrs. Manston locked the 
 • i'or. Uefore the servant had gone down more than two or 
 three stairs, Mrs. Manston unfastened the door again, and held 
 it ajar. 
 
 "Bring me some brandy," she said. 
 
 Tile chambermaid went down to the bar and brought up tlie 
 spirit in a tumbler. When she came into the room Mrs. Man- 
 ston had not removed a single article of apparel, and was walk- 
 ing up and down, as if still quite undecided upon the course it 
 was best to adopt. 
 
 Outsfde the door, when it was closed upon her, the maid 
 paused to listen for an instant. She heard Mrs. Manston talk- 
 ing to herself. 
 
 "This is welcome home!" she said. 
 
 § 2. From ti-n to ha If -past eleven p. m. 
 
 A strange concurrence of phenomena now confronts us. 
 
 During the autumn in which the past scenes were enacted. 
 Mr. Springrove had plowed, harrowed, and cleaned a narrow 
 and shaded piece of ground, lying at the back of his house, 
 which for many years had been looked upon as irreclaimable 
 waste. 
 
 The couch-grass extracted from the soil had been left to 
 wither in the sun; afterward it was raked together, lighted in 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 161 
 
 the customary- way, and now lay smoldering in a large heap in 
 the middle of the plot. 
 
 It had been kindled three days previous to Mrs. Mansion's 
 arrival, and one or two villagers, of a more cautious and less 
 sanguine temperament than Springrove, had suggested that the 
 fire was almost too near the back of the house for its continu- 
 ance to be unattended with risk; for though no danger could 
 be apprehended while the air remained moderately still, a brisk 
 breeze blowing toward the house might possibly carry a spark 
 across. 
 
 "Ay, that's true enough," said Springrove. "I must look 
 round before going to bed and see that everything's safe; but 
 to tell the truth I am anxious to get the rubbish burned up be- 
 fore the rain comes to wash it into the ground again. As to 
 carrying the couch into the back-field to burn, and bringing it 
 back again, why 'tis more than the ashes would be worth." 
 
 "Well, that's very true," said the neighbors, and passed on. 
 
 Two or three times during the first evening after the heap 
 was lit, he went to the back door to take a survey. Before bolt- 
 ing and barring up for the night he made a final and more care- 
 ful examination. The slowly smoking pile showed not the 
 slightest signs of activity. 
 
 Springrove's perfectly sound conclusion was, that as long as 
 the heap was not stirred, and the wind continued in the quarter 
 it blew from then, the couch would not flame, and that there 
 could be no shadow of danger to anything, even a combustible 
 substance, and if it were no more than a yard of¥. 
 
 The next morning the burning couch was discovered in pre- 
 cisely the same state as when he had gone to bed the preceding 
 night. The heap smoked in the same manner the whole of that 
 day ; at bed-time the farmer looked toward it, but less carefully 
 than on the first night. 
 
 The morning and the whole of the third day still saw the heap 
 in its old smoldering condition; indeed, the smoke was less 
 and there seemed a probability that it might have to be rekindled 
 on the morrow. 
 
 After admitting Mrs. Manston to his house in the evening 
 and hearing her retire, Mr. Springrove returned to the front 
 door to listen for a sound of his son, and inquired concerning 
 him of the railway-porter, who sat for a while in the kitchen. 
 
 The porter had not noticed young Mr. Springrove get out 
 11 
 
1C2 DESPERATI-: REMEDIES. 
 
 of the train, at which intcllii^cnco the old man concluded that 
 he would probably nut see liis son till the next day, as Edward 
 had hitherto made a point of coming by the train which brought 
 Mrs. Manston. 
 
 Half an hour later the porter left the imi. Springrove at the 
 same time going to the door to listen again for an instant, then 
 he walked arouiul and in at the back of the house. 
 
 The farmer glanced at the heap casually and indifferently in 
 passing; two nights of safety seemed to insure the third; and 
 lie was about to bolt and bar as usual, when the idea struck 
 iiim that there was just a possibility of his son's return by the 
 latest train, unlikely as it was that he would be so delayed. 
 
 The old man thereupon left tiic door unfastened, looked to 
 his usual matters indoors, and then went to bed. This was at 
 half-past ten o'clock. 
 
 l"'armers ami horticulturists well know that it is the nature of 
 a heaj) of couch grass, when kindled in calm weather, to 
 smolder for many days, and even weeks, until the whole mass 
 is reduced to a powdery charcoal ash, displaying the while 
 scarcely a sign of combustion beyond the volcano-like smoke 
 from its summit; but the continuance of this cjuiet i)rocess is 
 tliroughout its length at the mercy of one particular freak of 
 nature; that is, a sudden breeze, by which the heap is liable to 
 be fanned into a flame so brisk as to consume the whole in an 
 hour or two. 
 
 Had the fanner narrowly watched the pile when he went to 
 close the door, he would have seen, besides the familiar twine 
 of smoke from its summit, a quivering of the air around the 
 mass, showing that a considerable heat had arisen inside. 
 
 As the railway-porter turned the corner of the row of houses 
 adjoining the Three Tranters, a brisk new wind greeted his 
 face, and spread past him into the village. He walked along 
 the high-road till he came to a gate, about three hundred yards 
 from tlic imi. Over the gate could be discerned the situation 
 of the building he had just quitted. 
 
 He carelessly turned his head in passing, and saw behind him 
 a clear ref! gl<>w indicating the position of the couch-heap: a 
 glow without a flame, increasing and diminishing in brightness 
 as the breeze quickened or fell, like the coal of a newly lighted 
 cigar. If those cottages had been his, lie thought, he should 
 not care to have a fire so near to thctn as that — and the wind 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 163 
 
 rising. But the cottages not being his, he went on his way to 
 the station, where he was about to resume duty for the night. 
 
 The road was now quite deserted; till four o'clock the next 
 morning, when the carters would go to the stables, there 
 was little probability of any human being passing the Three 
 Tranters Inn. 
 
 By eleven, everybody in the house was asleep. It truly 
 seemed as if the treacherous element knew there had arisen a 
 grand opportunity for devastation. 
 
 At a quarter-past eleven a slight stealthy crackle made itself 
 heard amid the increasing moans of the night wind; the heap 
 glowed brighter still, and burst into a flame; the flame sank, 
 another breeze entered it, sustained it, and it grew to be first 
 continuous and weak, then continuous and strong. 
 
 At twenty minutes past eleven a blast of wind carried an airy 
 bit of ignited fern several yards forward in a direction parallel 
 to the houses and inn, and there deposited it on the ground. 
 
 Five minutes later another pufT of wind carried a similar 
 piece to a distance of live and twenty yards, where it also was 
 dropped softly on the ground. 
 
 Still the wind did not blow in the direction of the houses, 
 and even now to a casual observer they would have appeared 
 safe. 
 
 But nature does few things directly. A minute later still, an 
 ignited fragment fell upon the straw covering of a long thatched 
 heap or "grave" of mangel-wurzel, lying in a direction at right 
 angles to the house, and down toward the hedge. There the 
 fragment faded to darkness. 
 
 A short time subsequent to this, after many intermediate 
 deposits and seemingly bafTled attempts, another fragme^Uf" fell 
 on the mangel-wurzel grave, and continued to glow; the glow 
 was increased by the wind; the straw caught fire and burst into 
 flame. It was inevitable that the flame should run along the 
 ridge of the thatch toward a piggery at the end. Yet had the 
 jMggery been tiled, the time-honored hostel would even now at 
 this last moment have been safe; but it was constructed as 
 piggeries are mostly constructed, of wood and thatch. The 
 hurdles and straw roof of the frail erection became ignited in 
 their turn, and abutting as the shed did on the back of the inn, 
 flamed up to the eaves of the main roof in less than thirty 
 seconds. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 § 3. Half -past eleven to t^uelve p. vi. 
 
 A hazardous length of time elapsed before the inmates of the 
 Tlircc Tranters knew of their danger. When at length the dis- 
 covery was made, the rush was a nish for bare life. 
 
 A man's voice calling, then screams, then loud stamping and 
 shouts were heard. 
 
 Mr. Sjiringrove ran out first. Two minutes later appeared 
 the hostler and chambcmiaid, who were man and wife. The 
 inn, as lias been stated, was a quaint old building, and as 
 inflammable as a bee-hive; it overhung the base at the level 
 of the first floor, and again overhung at the eaves, which were 
 finished with heavy oak barge-boards; every atom in its sub- 
 stance, every feature in its construction, favored the fire. 
 
 The forked flames, lurid and smoky, became nearly lost to 
 view, bursting forth again with a bound and loud crackle, in- 
 creased tenfold in power and brightness. The crackling grew 
 sharper. Long quivering shadows began to be flung from the 
 stately trees at the end of the house; the square outline of the 
 church tower, on the other side of the way, which had hitherto 
 been a dark mass against a sky comparatively light, now began 
 to appear as a light object against a sky of darkness; and even 
 the narrow surface of the flagstaff at the top could be seen in its 
 dark surrounding, brought out from its obscurity by the rays 
 from the dancing light. 
 
 Shouts and other noises increased in loudness and frequency. 
 Tlie lapse of ten minutes brought most of the inhabitants of 
 that end of the village into the street, followed in a short time by 
 the rector. 
 
 Casting a hasty glance up and down, he beckoned to one or 
 two of the men, and vanished again. In a short time wheels 
 Avere heard, and Mr. Raunham and the men reappeared with 
 the garden engine, the only one in the village, except that at 
 Knapwatcr House. After some little trouble the hose was 
 connected with a tank in the old stable-yard, and the puny 
 instrument began to play. 
 
 Several seemed paralyzed at first, and stood transfixed, tluir 
 rigid faces looking like red-hot iron in the glaring light. In 
 the confusion a woman cried, "Ring the 1>clls backward!" and 
 three or four of the old and superstitious entered the belfry 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 165 
 
 and jangled them indescribably. Some were only half-dressed, 
 and, to add to the horror, among them was Clerk Crickett, 
 running up and down with a face streaming with bloo'd, 
 ghastly and pitiful to see, his excitement being so great that 
 he had not the slightest conception of how, when, or where he 
 came by the wound. 
 
 The crowd was now busy at work, and tried to save a little 
 of the furniture of the inn. The only room they could enter 
 was the parlor, from which they managed to bring out the 
 bureau, a few chairs, some old silver candlesticks, and half a 
 dozen light articles; but these were all. 
 
 Fiery mats of thatch slid off the roof and fell into the road 
 with a deadened thud, while white flakes of straw and wood- 
 ash were flying in the wind like feathers. At the same time 
 two of the cottages adjoining, upon which a little water had 
 been brought to play from the rector's engine, were seen to be 
 on fire. The attenuated spurt of water was as nothing upon the 
 heated and^ dry surface of the thatched roof; the fire prevailed 
 without a minute's hindrance, and dived through to the rafters. 
 
 Suddenly arose a cry, "Where's Mr. Springrove?" 
 
 He had vanished from the spot by the churchyard wall, on 
 which he had been standing a few minutes earlier. 
 
 "I fancy he's gone inside," said a voice. 
 
 "Madness and folly, what can he save!" said another; "Good 
 God, find him! Help here!" 
 
 A wild rush was made at the door, which had fallen to, and 
 in defiance of the scorching flame that burst forth, three men 
 forced themselves through it. Immediately inside the thresh- 
 old they found the object of their search, lying senseless on the 
 floor of the passage. 
 
 To bring him out and lay him on a bank was the work of an 
 instant; a basin of cold water was dashed in his face, and he 
 began to recover consciousness, but very slowly. He had been 
 saved by a miracle. No sooner were his preservers out of the 
 building than the window-frames lit up as if by magic with deep 
 and waving fringes of flame. Simultaneously the joints of the 
 boards fonning the front door started into view as glowing bars 
 of fire; a star of red light penetrated the center, gradually in- 
 creasing in size till the flames rushed forth. 
 
 Then the staircase fell. 
 
 "Everybody is out safe," said a voice. 
 
160 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Vcs, thank God!" said three or four others. 
 
 "Oh, we forgot that a stranjjcr came! I think she is safe." 
 
 'i hope she is," saitl the weak voice of some one coming up 
 from behind. It was the chambermaid's. 
 
 Springrove at tliat moment an^used liimself; he staggered 
 to his feet and threw his hands up wildly. 
 
 "Everybody, no! no! The lady who came by train. .Mrs. 
 Manston! I tried to fetch her out, but I fell." 
 
 An exclamation of horror burst from the crowd: it wa< 
 caused partly by this flisclosurc of Springrove, more by the 
 added perception wiiich followed his worils. 
 
 An average interval of about three minutes had elapsed 
 between one intensely fierce gust of wind and the next, and 
 now another poured over them; the roof swayed, and a moment 
 afterward fell in with a crash, pulling the gable after it. and 
 thrusting outward the front wall of wood-work, which fell into 
 the road with a rumbling echo; a cloud of black dust, myriads 
 of sparks, and a great outburst of flame followed the uproar 
 of the fall. 
 
 "Who is she — what is she?" burst from every lip again an<l 
 again. inct)herently. and without leaving a sufficient pause for 
 a reply, had a reply been volunteered. 
 
 Tlie autumn wind, tameless, and swift, and proud, still blew 
 upon the dying old house, which was constructed so entirely 
 of combustible materials that it burned almost as fiercely as a 
 corn-rick. The heat in the road increased, and now for an 
 instant at the height of the conflagration all stood still, and 
 gazed silently, awe-struck and helpless, in the presence of so 
 irresistible an enemy. Then, with minds full of the tragedy 
 unfolded to them, they rushed forward again with the obtuse 
 directness of waves to their labor of saving goods from the 
 houses adjoining, which it was evident were all doomed to 
 destruction. 
 
 The mimites passed by. The Three Tranters Inn sank into 
 a mere heap of red-hot charcoal : the fire pushed its way down 
 the row as the church clock opposite slowly struck the hour 
 of midnight, and the bewildered chimes, scarcely heard amid tl: • 
 crackling of the flames, wandered through the wayv»ard :.'. 
 of the Old Hundred and Thirteenth Fsalm. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 167 
 
 § 4. Nine to eleven p. m. 
 
 Manston mounted his gig and set out from Chettlewood that 
 evening in no very enviable frame of mind. The thought of 
 domestic hie in Knapwater Old House, with the now eclipsed 
 wife of the past, was more than disagreeable, was positively 
 distasteful to him. 
 
 Yet he knew that the influential position which, from what- 
 ever fortunate cause, he held on Miss Aldclyfife's manor, would 
 never again fall to his lot on any other; and he tacitly assented 
 to this dilemma, hoping that some consolation or other would 
 soon suggest itself to him; married as he was, he was near 
 Cytherea. 
 
 He occasionally looked at his watch as he drove along the 
 lanes, timing the pace of his horse by the hour, that he might 
 reach Carriford-Road station just soon enough to meet the last 
 London train. 
 
 He soon began to notice in the sky a slight yellow halo, near 
 the horizon. It rapidly increased ; it changed color, and grew 
 redder; then the glare visibly brightened and dimmed at inter- 
 vals, showing that its origin was affected by the strong wind 
 prevailing. 
 
 Manston reined in his horse at the summit of a hill and 
 considered. 
 
 "It is a rick-yard on fire," he thought; "no house could pro- 
 duce such a raging flame so suddenly." 
 
 He trotted on again, attempting to particularize the local 
 features in the neighborhood of the fire ; but this it was too dark 
 to do, and the excessive winding of the roads misled him as to 
 its direction, not being an inhabitant of the district, or a coun- 
 tryman used to forming such judgments; while the brilliancy 
 of the light shortened its real remoteness to an apparent distance 
 of not more than half: it seemed so near that he again stopped 
 his horse, this time to listen; but he could hear no sound. 
 
 Entering now a narrow valley, the sides of which obscured 
 the sky to an angle of perhaps thirty or forty degrees above the 
 mathematical horizon, he was obliged to suspend his judgment 
 till he was in possession of further knowledge, having, however, 
 assumed in the interim that the fire was somewhere between 
 Carriford-Road station and the village. 
 
168 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 The self-same glare had just arrested the eyes of another man. 
 He was at that minute gliding along several miles to the east 
 of the steward's position, but Hearing the same point as that to 
 which Manston tended. The younger Edward Springrove 
 was returning from London to his father's house by the iden- 
 tical train which the steward was expecting to bring liis wi'e, 
 the truth being that Edward's lateness was owing to the simplest 
 of all causes, his temporary want of money, which led him to 
 make a slow journey for the sake of traveling at third-class 
 fare. 
 
 Springrove had received Cytherca's bitter and adinonitory 
 letter, and he was clearly awakened to a perception of the false 
 position in which he had placed himself by keeping silence at 
 Creston on his long engagement. An increasing reluctance to 
 put an end to those few days of ecstasy with Cytherea had over- 
 ruled his conscience and tied his tongue till speaking was too 
 late. 
 
 "Why did I do it, how could I dream of loving her.' he 
 asked himself as he walked by day, as he tossed on his bed by 
 night; "miserable folly!" 
 
 An impressible heart had for years — perhaps as many as six 
 or seven years — been distracting him, by unconsciously setting 
 itself to yearn for somebody wanting, he scarcely knew whom. 
 Echoes of himself, though rarely, he now and then found. 
 Sometimes they were men, sometimes women, his cousin Ade- 
 laide being one of these; for in spite of a fashion which per- 
 vades the whole community at the present day — the habit of 
 exclaiming that woman is not undeveloped man. but diverse, 
 the fact remains that, after all, women are Mankind, anil that 
 in many of the sentiments of life the difference of sex is but a 
 difference of degree. 
 
 But the indefinable helpmate to the remoter sides of himself 
 still continued invisible. He grew older, and concluded that 
 the ideas, or rather emotions, which possessed him on the sub- 
 ject were probably too unreal ever to be found embodied in the 
 flesh of a woman. Thereupon he developed a plan of satisfy- 
 ing his dreams by wandering away to the heroines of poetical 
 imagination, and took no furtlv r thought on the earthly reali- 
 zation of his formless desire, in more homely matters satisfying 
 himself with his cousin. 
 
DESPiiR-.iU REMEDIES. 169 
 
 Cytherea appeared in the sky; his heart started up and 
 spoke: 
 
 " 'Tis she, and here. 
 Lo! I unclothe and clear 
 My wishes' cloudy character." 
 
 Some women kindle emotion so rapidly in a man's heart that 
 the judgment cannot keep pace with its rise, and finds, on 
 comprehending the situation, that faithfulness to the old love 
 is already treachery to the new. Such women are not necessa- 
 rily the greatest of their sex, but there are very few of them. 
 Cytherea was one. 
 
 On receiving the letter from her he had taken to thinking 
 over these things, and had not answered it at all. But "hungry 
 generations" soon tread down the muser in a city. At length 
 he thought of the strong necessity of living. After a dreary 
 search, the negligence of which was ultimately overcome by 
 mere conscientiousness, he obtained a situation as assistant to 
 an architect in the neighborhood of Charing Cross; the duties 
 would not commence until after the lapse of a month. 
 
 He could not at first decide whither he should go to spend 
 the inter\^ening time; but in the midst of his reasonings he 
 found himself on the road homeward, impelled by a secret and 
 unowned hope of getting a last glimpse of Cytherea there. 
 
 § 5. Midnight. 
 
 It was a quarter to twelve when Manston drove into the 
 station-yard. The train was punctual, and the bell, announ- 
 cing its arrival, rang as he crossed the booking-office to go out 
 upon the platform. 
 
 The porter who had accompanied Mrs. Manston to Carri- 
 ford, and had returned to the station on his night duty, recog- 
 nized the steward as he entered, and immediately came toward 
 him. 
 
 "Mrs. Manston came in by the nine o'clock train, sir," he 
 said. 
 
 The steward gave vent to an expression of vexation. 
 
 "Her luggage is here, sir," the porter said. 
 
 "Put it up behind me in the gig if it is not too much," said 
 Manston. 
 
 "Directly this train is in and gone, sir." 
 
170 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 The man vanished and crossed the line to meet the entering 
 train. 
 
 "Where is that fire?" Manston said to the booking-clerk. 
 
 Before the clerk c )uld speak, another man ran in and an- 
 swered the question without having heard it. 
 
 "Half Carriford is burned down, or will be!" he exclaimed. 
 "You can't see the flames from this station on account of the 
 trees, but step on the bridge — 'tis tremendous!" 
 
 He also crossed the line to assist at the entry of the train, 
 which came in the next minute. 
 
 The steward stood in the office. One passenger alighted, 
 gave up his ticket, and crossed the room in front of Manston: 
 a young man with a black bag and umbrella in his hand. He 
 passed out of the door, down the steps, and struck out into the 
 darkness. 
 
 "Who was tliat young man?" said Manston, when the porter 
 had returned. The young man, by a kind of magnetism, had 
 drawn the steward's thoughts after him. 
 
 "He's an architect's clerk." 
 
 ".My own old profession. I could have sworn it by the cut '>f 
 him," Manston murmured. "What's his name?" he said 
 again. 
 
 "Springrove — I-'armcr Springroves son, Edward." 
 
 "Farmer Springrove's son, Edward," the steward rej)eated 
 to himself, and considered the matter to which the words had 
 painfully recalled his mind. 
 
 The matter was Miss AldclyfFc's mention of the young man as 
 Cytherea's lover, which, indeed, had scarcely ever been absent 
 from his thoughts. 
 
 "But for the existence of my wife that man might have been 
 my rival," he pondered, following the porter, who had now 
 come back to him. into the luggage-room. And while the man 
 was carrying out and putting in one box. which was sufficiently 
 portable for the gig, Manston still thought, as his eyes watched 
 the process: 
 
 "But for my wife, Springrove might have been my rival." 
 
 He examined the lamps of his gig. carefully laid out the 
 reins, mounted his seat and drove along the turnpike road 
 toward Knapwater Park. 
 
 The exact locality of the fire was plain to him as he neared 
 home. He soon could hear the shout of men, the flapping of 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 171 
 
 the flames, the cracking of burning wood, and could smell the 
 smoke from the conliagration. 
 
 Of a sudden, a few yards ahead, widiin the compass of the 
 rays from the right-hand lamp, burst forward the figure of a 
 man. Having been walking in darkness the new-comer raised 
 his hands to his eyes, on approaching nearer, to screen them 
 from the glare of the reflector. 
 
 Manston saw that he was one of the villagers: a small farmer 
 originally, who had drunk himself down to a day-laborer and 
 reputed poacher. 
 
 "Hoy !"' cried Alanston, aloud, that the man might step aside 
 out of the way. 
 
 "Is that Mr. Manston?" said the man. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Somebody ha' come to Carriford: and the rest of it may 
 concern you, sir," 
 
 "Well, well." 
 
 "Did you expect Mrs. Manston to-night, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, unfortunately she's come, I know, and asleep long 
 before this time, I suppose?" 
 
 The laborer leaned his elbow upon the shaft of the gig and 
 turned his face, pale and sweating from his late work at the 
 fire, up to Manston's. 
 
 "Yes, she did"' come," he said "I beg pardon, 
 
 sir, but I should be glad of — of — " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Glad of a trifie for bringen ye the news." 
 
 "Not a farthing! I didn't w^ant your news; I knew she was 
 come." 
 
 "Won't you give me a shillen, sir?" 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "Then wall you lend me a shillen, sir? I be tired out and 
 don't know what to do. If I don't pay you back some day I'll 
 be d d." 
 
 "The devil is so cheated that perdition isn't worth a penny as 
 securitv." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Let me go on," said INIanston. 
 
 "Thy wife is dead; that's the rest o' the news," said the 
 laborer slowly. He waited for a reply: none came. 
 
 "She went to the Three Tranters, because she couldn't get 
 
172 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 into thy house, the burncii roof fell in upon her before she could 
 be calleil up, and she's a cinder, as thou'lt be some day." 
 
 "That uill do. let nie drive on," said the steward calmly. 
 
 Expectation of a concussion may be so intense that its failure 
 strikes the brain with more force than its fulfillment. The 
 lab )rer sank back into the ditch. Such a Cushi could not real- 
 ize the possibility of such an unmoved king^. 
 
 Manston drove hastily to the turning: of the road, tied his 
 horse, and ran oil foot to the site of the fire. 
 
 The stajj^nation caused by the awful accident had been passed 
 thr 'U^h, anil all hands were helping to remove from the re- 
 maininj^ cottages what furniture they could lay hold of: the 
 thatch of the roofs being already on fire. The Knapwater fire- 
 engine had arrived on the spot, but it was small ami ineffectual. 
 A group was collected round the rector, who in a coat which 
 had become bespattered, scorched, and torn in his exertions, 
 was directing on one hand the proceedings relative to the re- 
 moval of goods into the church, and with the other was pointing 
 out the spot on which it was most desirable that the puny 
 engines at their disposal should be made to play. Every tongue 
 was instantly silent at the sight of Manston's pale and clear 
 countenance, which contrasted strangely with the grimy and 
 streaming faces of the toiling villagers. 
 
 "Was she burned?" he said in a firm though husky voice, 
 and stepping into the illuminated area. The rector came to 
 him. and took him aside. "Is she burned?" repeated Manston. 
 
 "She is dead: but thank God, she was spared the horrid 
 agony of burning," the rector said solemnly; "the roof and 
 gable fell in upon her and crushed her. Instant death must 
 liave followed." 
 
 "Why was she here?" said Manston. 
 
 "From what we can hurriedly collect, it seems that she found 
 the door of your house locked, and concluded that you had 
 retired, the fact being that your sen-ant. Mrs. Crickett. had gone 
 out to supper. She then came back to the inn and went to 
 bed." 
 
 "W'here's the landlord?" said Manston. 
 
 Mr. Springrove came up. walking feebly, and wrapped in 
 a cloak, and corroborated the evidence given by the rector. 
 
 "Did she look ill, or annoyed, when she came?" said the 
 steward. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 173 
 
 "I can't say; I didn't see; but I think . . ." 
 
 "What do you think?" 
 
 "She was much put out about something." 
 
 "My not meeting her, naturally," murmured the other, lost 
 in reverie. He turned his back on Springrove and the rector, 
 and retired from the shining light. 
 
 Everything had been done that could be done with the limited 
 means at their disposal. The whole row of houses was de- 
 stroyed, and each presented itself as one stage of a series, pro- 
 gressing from smoking ruins at the end where the inn had 
 stood, to a partly flaming mass — glowing as none but wood 
 embers will glow — at the other. 
 
 A feature in the decline of town fires was noticeably absent 
 here; steam. There was present what is not observable in 
 towns; incandescence. 
 
 The heat, and the smarting effect upon their eyes of the strong 
 smoke from the burning oak and deal, had at last driven the 
 villagers back from the road in front of the houses, and they 
 now stood in groups in the churchyard, the surface of which, 
 raised by the interments of generations, stood four or five feet 
 above the level of the road, and almost even with the top of the 
 low wall, dividing one from the other. 
 
 The headstones stood forth whitely against the dark grass 
 and yews, their brightness being repeated on the white smock- 
 frocks of some of the laborers, and in a mellower, ruddier form 
 on their faces and hands, on those of the grinning gargoyles, 
 and on other salient stonework of the weather-beaten church in 
 the background. 
 
 The rector had decided that, under the distressing circum- 
 stances of the case, there would be no sacrilege in placing in 
 the church, for the night, the pieces of furniture and utensils 
 which had been saved from the several houses. There was no 
 other place of safety for them, and they accordingly were gath- 
 ered there. 
 
 § 6. Half-past twelve to one a. m. 
 
 Manston, when he retired to meditate, had walked round 
 the churchyard, and now entered the opened door of the 
 building. 
 
 lie mechanically pursued his way round the piers into his 
 
 12 
 
174 DESPERATE RE:<>i.i.ii,.s. 
 
 own scat in the north aisle. Tlic lower atmosphere of this spot 
 was shaded by its own wall from the shine which streamed in 
 over the wind )w sills on the same side. The only light burnini:: 
 inside the cluirch was a small tallow candle, standings in th.> 
 front, in the opposite side of the buildinjT^ to t'lat in which Man- 
 ston had sat down, and near where the furniture was piled. The 
 candle's mild rays were oveqjowercd by the ruddier li.qfht from 
 the ruins, making the weak f^amc to appear like the moon by 
 ilay. 
 
 Sitting there he saw Farmer Springrove enter the door, fol- 
 lowed by his son Edward, still carrying his traveling-bag in his 
 hand. They were speaking of the sad death of Mrs. Manston. 
 but the subject was relinquished for that of the houses burned. 
 
 This row of houses, running from the inn eastward, had been 
 built under the following circumstances. 
 
 P^ifty years before this date the spot upon which the cottagc<; 
 afterward stood was a blank strip, along the side of the village 
 street, difficult to cultivate on account of the outcrop thereon of 
 a large bed of flints called locally a "launch." 
 
 The AldclyfTe then in possession of the estate conceived the 
 idea that a row of cottages would be an improvement to the 
 spot, and accordingly granted leases of portions to several 
 respectable inhabitants. Each lessee was to be subject to the 
 payment of a merely nominal rent for the whole term of lives 
 on condition that he built his own cottage and delivered it up 
 intact at the end of the term. 
 
 Those who had built had, one by one, relinquished their 
 indentures, either by sale or barter, to Farmer Springrove's 
 father. New lives were added in some cases by payment of a 
 sum to the lord of the manor, etc., and all the leases were now 
 held by the farmer himself, as one of the chief provisions for 
 his old age. 
 
 The steward had become interested in the following con- 
 versation : 
 
 "Try ntH to be so depressed, father: they arc all insured." 
 
 The words came from Edward, in an anxious tone. 
 
 "Vou mistake. Edward; ''^''^ -i'-'' not insured." returned the 
 old man gK^omily. 
 
 "Xot?" the son asked. 
 
 "Not one!" said the farmer. 
 
 "In the Helmet Fire Office, surely?" 
 
DESPERATE IIEMEDIES. 175 
 
 ''They were insured there every one. Six months ago the 
 office, which had been raising the premiums on thatched prem- 
 ises higher for some years, gave up insuring them aUogether, 
 as two or three other fire offices had done previously, on account, 
 they said, of the uncertainty and greatness of the risk of 
 thatch undetached. Ever since then I have been continually 
 intending to go to another office, but have never gone. Who 
 expects a fire?" 
 
 "Do you remember the terms of the leases?" said Edward, 
 still more uneasily. 
 
 "No, not particularly," said his father absently. 
 
 "Where are they?" 
 
 "In the bureau there ; that's why I tried to save it first, among 
 other things." 
 
 "Well, we must see to that at once." 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "The key." 
 
 They went into the south aisle, took the candle from the font, 
 and then proceeded to open the bureau, which had been placed 
 in a corner under the gallery. Both leaned over upon the flap; 
 Edward holding the candle, while his father took the pieces of 
 parchment from out of the drawers, and spread the first out 
 before him. 
 
 "You read it, Ted. I can't see widiout my glasses. This one 
 v^all be sufficient. The terms of all are the same." 
 
 Edward took the parchment, and read quickly and indis- 
 tinctly for some time; then aloud and slowly as follows: 
 
 "And the said John Springrove for himself his heirs execu- 
 tors and administrators doth covenant and agree with the said 
 Gerald Fellcourt Aldclyffe his heirs and assigns that he the 
 said John Springrove his heirs and assigns during the said 
 term shall pay into the said Gerald Fellcourt Aldclyfife his 
 heirs and assigns the clear yearly rent of ten shillings and six- 
 pence .... at the several times hereinbeiorc appointed 
 for the payment thereof respectively. And also shall and at all 
 times during the said term well and sufficiently repair and keep 
 the said Cottage or Dwelling-house and all other the premises 
 and all houses or buildings erected or to be erected thereupon 
 in good and proper repair in every respect without exception; 
 and the said premises in such good repair upon the determina- 
 
 12 
 
176 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 tiun of tliis demise shall yieUl up unto the said Gerald Fellc Jurt 
 Aldclyfife his heirs and assigns." 
 
 They closed the bureau and turned toward the door of the 
 church without speaking. 
 
 ManstDu also had come forward out of the glo ^m. Not- 
 withstanding the farmer's own troubles, an instinctive respect 
 and generous sense of sympathy with the steward for his awful 
 loss caused the old man to step aside, that Mansion might pass 
 out without speaking to them if he chose to do so. 
 
 "Who is he?" whispered Edward to his father, as Manston 
 ap[)roached. 
 
 "Mr. Manston, the steward." 
 
 Manston came near, and passed down the aisle on the side 
 of the younger man. Their faces came almost close togetlier: 
 one large flame, which still lingered upon the ruins outside, 
 threw long dancing shadows of each across the nave till they 
 bent upward against the aisle wall, and also illuminated their 
 eyes, as each met those of the other. Edward had learned, by 
 a letter from home, of the steward's passion for Cytherea, and 
 his mysterious repression of it, afterward explained by his 
 marriage. That marriage was now naught. Edward realized 
 the man's newly acquired freedom, and felt an instinctive en- 
 mity toward him — he would hardly own to himself why. The 
 steward, too, knew of Cytherea's attachment to Edward, and 
 looked keenly and inscrutably at him. 
 
 § 7. One to two a. in. 
 
 Manston went htMiicward alone, his heart full of strange 
 emotions. Entering the house and dismissing tlie woman to 
 hor own home, lie at once proceeded upstairs to his bedroom. 
 
 Reasoning worldlincss and infidelity, especially when allied 
 with sensuousness, cannot repress on some extreme occasions 
 the human instinct to pour out the soul to some Being or Per- 
 sonality, who in frigid moments is dismissed with the title of 
 Chance, or at most Law. Manston was impiously and inhu- 
 manly, but honestly and unutterably, tliankful for the recent 
 catastrophe. P.esiiie his bed. for the first time during a period 
 of nearly twenty vears. he fell down upon his knees in a pas- 
 sionate outburst of feeling. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 177 
 
 Many minutes passed before he arose. He walked to the 
 window, and then seemed to remember for the first time that 
 some action on his part was necessary in connection with the 
 sad circumstances of the night. 
 
 Leaving the house at once, he went to the sceric of the fire, 
 arriving there in time to hear the rector making an arrange- 
 ment with a certain number of men to watch the spot till morn- 
 ing. The ashes were still red-hot and flaming. Manston found 
 nothing could be done toward searching them at that hour of 
 the night. He turned homeward again in the company of the 
 rector, w4io had considerately persuaded him to retire from the 
 scene for a while, and promised that as soon as a man could 
 live amid the embers of the Three Tranters Inn, they should 
 be carefully searched for the remains of his unfortunate wife. 
 
 Alanston then went indoors, to wait for morning. 
 
 12 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF FIVE DAYS. 
 {i I. Xoiumlur the tu-ffity-ninlh. 
 
 The search was commenced at dawn, but a quarter past nine 
 o'clock came without bringing any result. Mansion i)artook 
 of a little breakfast, and crossed the hollow of the park which 
 intervened between the okl and modern manor-houses to ask 
 for an interview with Miss Aldclyffe. 
 
 He met her midway. She was about to pay him a visit of 
 contjolence, and to place every man on the estate at his dis- 
 posal, that tlie search f )r any relic of his dead and destroyed 
 wife might not be delayed an instant. 
 
 He accompanied her back to the house. At first they con- 
 versed as if the death of die i)oor woman was an event which 
 the husl)and must of necessity deeply lament: and when all 
 under this head that social form seemed to require had been 
 uttered, they spoke of the material damage done, and of the 
 steps which had better be taken to remedy it. 
 
 It was not till both were shut inside her private room that 
 she spoke to him in her blunt and cynical manner. A certain 
 newness of bearing in him, peculiar to the present morning, 
 had hitherto forbidden her this tone: the demeanor of the sub- 
 ject of her favoritism had altered, she could not tell in what 
 way. He was entirely a changed man. 
 
 "Are you really sorry for your poor wife, Mr. Mansion ?" 
 she said. 
 
 "Well. I am," he answered shortly. 
 
 "P>ut only as for any human being who has met with a violent 
 death?" 
 
 He confessed it — "For she was not a good woman," he 
 added. 
 
 "I should be sorry to say such a thing now the poor creature 
 is dead." Miss AlddyfTe returned reproachfully. 
 
 "Why?" he asked; "why should I praise her if she doesn't 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 179 
 
 deserve it? I say exactly what I have often admired Sterne for 
 saying in one of his letters — that neither reason nor scripture 
 asks us to speak nothing but good of the dead. And now, 
 madam," he continued, after a short interval of thought, ''I 
 may, perhaps, hope that you will assist me, or rather not thwart 
 me, in endeavoring to win the love of a young lady living about 
 you, one in whom I am much interested already." 
 
 "Cytherea?" 
 
 ''Yes, Cytherea." 
 
 "You have been loving Cytherea all the while?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Surprise was a preface to much agitation in her, which 
 caused her to rise from her seat, and pace to the side of the 
 room. The steward quietly looked on and added, "I have been 
 loving and still love her." 
 
 She came close up to him, wistfully contemplating his face, 
 one hand moving indecisively at her side. 
 
 "And your secret marriage was, then, the true and only 
 reason for that backwardness regarding the courtship of Cy- 
 therea, which, they tell me, has been the talk of the village; not 
 your indifiference to her attractions." Her voice had a tone of 
 conviction in it, as well as of incjuiry; but none of jealousy. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "and not a dishonorable one. What held 
 me back was just that one thing — a sense of morality that 
 perhaps, madam, you did not give me credit for." The latter 
 words were spoken with a mien and tone of pride. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe preserved silence. 
 
 "And now," he went on, "I may as well say a word in vindi- 
 cation of my conduct lately, at the risk, too, of offending you. 
 My actual motive in submitting to your order that I should 
 send for my late wife, and live with her, was not the mercenary 
 policy of wishing to retain an office which brings me a higher 
 income than any I have enjoyed before, but this unquenchable 
 passion for Cytherea. Though I saw the weakness, folly, and 
 even wickedness of it continually, it still forced me to try to 
 continue near her, even as the husband of another woman." 
 
 He waited for her to speak : she did not. 
 
 "There's a great obstacle to my making any way in winning 
 ]Miss Grave's love," he went on. 
 
 "Yes, Edward Springrove," she said quietly. "I know it, T 
 did once want to see them married; they have had a slight 
 
ISO DESPERATE REMEDIES 
 
 quarrel, and it will soon be made up agam iiiiks> — sIk- 
 si)oke as if she had only half attended to Manston's last 
 statement. 
 
 "He is already engaged to be married to somebody else," 
 said the steward. 
 
 "Pooh!" said she, "you mean to his cousin at Peakhill; 
 that's nothing to help us; he's now come home to break it 
 ofT." 
 
 "Me must not break it off," said Manston, firmly and calmly. 
 
 His tone attracted her, startled her. Recovering herself, she 
 said haughtily, "Well, that's your affair, not mine. Though my 
 wish has been to see her your wife. I can't do anything dis- 
 honorable to bring about such a result." 
 
 "But it must be made your affair," he said in a hard, steady 
 voice, looking into her eyes, as if he saw there the wliolc pano- 
 rama of her past. 
 
 One of the most difficult things to portray by written words 
 is that peculiar mixture of moods expressed in a woman's coun- 
 tenance when, after having been sedulously engaged in estab- 
 lishing another's position, she suddenly suspects him of under- 
 mining her own. 
 
 It was tlius that Miss Aldclyffc looked at the steward. 
 
 "You — know — something — of me?" she faltered. 
 
 "I know all," he said. 
 
 ''Then curse that wife of yours! She wrote and said she 
 wouldn't tell you!" she burst out. "Couldn't she keep her word 
 for a day?" She reflected, and then said, but no more as to a 
 stranger, "I will not yield. I have committed no crime. I 
 yielded to her threats in a moment of weakness, though I felt 
 inclined to defy her at the time: it was chiefly becau.se I was 
 mystified as to how she got to know of it. Pooh! I will put 
 up with threats no more. Oh, can you threaten me?" she 
 added, softly, as if she had for the moment forgotten to whom 
 she had been speaking. 
 
 "My love must be made your affair." he repeated, without 
 taking his eyes from her. 
 
 An agony, which was not the agony of being discovered in 
 a sccrci, obstructed her utterance for a time. "How can you 
 turn upon me so v>hcn I schemed to get you here — schemed 
 that you might win her till I found you were married? Oh, 
 how can you! Oh! . . . Oli!" She wept; and the weep- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 181 
 
 ing of such a nature was as harrowing as the weeping of a 
 man. 
 
 "Your getting me here was bad poHcy as to your secret — 
 the most absurd thing in the world," he said, not heeding her 
 distress. "I knew all except the identity of the individual long 
 ago. Directly I found that my coming here was a contrived 
 thing and not a matter of chance, it fixed my attention upon 
 you at once. All that was required was the mere spark of life 
 to make of a bundle of perceptions an organic whole." 
 
 "Policy, how can you talk of policy? Think, do think! And 
 how can you threaten me when you know — you know — that I 
 would befriend you readily without a threat?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I think you would," he said more kindly, "but 
 your indifference for so many, many years has made me doubt 
 it." 
 
 "No, not indifference — 'twas enforced silence: my father 
 lived." 
 
 He took her hand, and held it gently. 
 
 "Now listen," he said, more quietly and humanly, when she 
 had become calmer. "Springrove must marry the woman he's 
 engaged to. You may make him, but only in one way." 
 
 "Well: but don't speak sternly, Aeneas!" 
 
 "Do you know that his father has not been particularly 
 thriving for the last two or three years?" 
 
 "I have heard something of it, once or twice, though his 
 rents have been promptly paid, haven't they?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; and do you know the terms of the leases of the 
 houses which are burned?" he said, explaining to her that by 
 those terms she might compel him even to rebuild every house. 
 "The case is the clearest case of fire by negligence that I have 
 ever known, in addition to that " he continued. 
 
 "I don't want them rebuilt; you know it was intended by my 
 father, directly they fell in, to clear the site for a new entrance 
 to the park?" 
 
 "Yes, but that doesn't affect tht position, which is that 
 Farmer Springrove is in your power to an extent which is very 
 serious for him." 
 
 "I won't do it — 'tis a conspiracy." 
 
 "Won't you for me?" he said eagerly. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe changed color. 
 
182 DEsrM:RATE uemf:dies. 
 
 "I don't threaten now, I implore," he said. 
 
 "Because yon might threaten if yon chose," she mournfuny 
 answered. "Cnt why be so — wlien your marriage with her was 
 my own pet itlea long before it was yours! What nnist 1 dt)?" 
 * "Scarcely anything: simply this. When I have seen old Mr. 
 Springrove. which I shall (lo in a day or two, and told him that 
 he will be expected to rebuild the houses, do y<>u see the young 
 man. See him yourself, in order that the proposal made may 
 not appear to be anything more than an impulse of your own. 
 You or he will bring up the subject of the hou.ses. To rebuild 
 them would be a matter of at least six hundred pounds, and he 
 will almost surely say that we are hard in insisting upon the 
 extreme letter of the leases. Then tell him, that neither can you 
 yourself think of compelling an old tenant like his father to any 
 such painful extreme — there shall be no compulsion to buihl, 
 simply a surrender of the leases. Then speak feelingly of his 
 cousin, as a woman whom you respect and love, and whose 
 secret you have learned to be that she is heartsick with hope 
 deferred. Beg him to marry her, his betrothed and your 
 friend, as some return for your consideration toward his father. 
 Don't suggest too early a day for their marriage, or he will su>^- 
 pect you of some motive beyond womanly sympathy. Coax 
 him to make a promise to her that she shall be his wife at the 
 end of a twelvemonth, and get him, on assenting to this, to 
 write to Cytherea, entirely renouncing her." 
 
 "She has already asked him to do that." 
 
 "So much the better — and telling her, too, that he is about 
 to fulfdl his long-standing promise to marry his cousin. If 
 you think it worth while, you may say Cytherea was not indis- 
 posed to think of me before she knew I was married. I have 
 at home a note she wrote me the first evening I saw her. which 
 looks rather warm, and which I could show you. Trust me, 
 he will give her up. When he is married to Adelaide Hinton, 
 Cytherea will be induced to marry me — perhaps before; a 
 woman's pride is soon wounded." 
 
 "And hadn't I better write to Mr. \yttleton and inquire more 
 particularly what's the law upon the lionses?" 
 
 "Oh, no, there's no hurry for that. We know well enough 
 how the case stands — quite well enough to talk in general 
 terms about it. And T want the pressure to be put upon young 
 Springrove before he goes away from home again." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 183 
 
 She looked at him furtively, long, and sadly, as after speak- 
 ing he became lost in thovight, his eyes listlessly tracing the 
 pattern of the carpet. "Yes, yes, she will be mine," he whis- 
 pered, careless of Cytherea Aldclyfife's presence. At last he 
 raised his eyes inquiringly. 
 
 "I will do my best, Aeneas," she answered. 
 
 Talibiis incusat. Manston then left the house, and again 
 went toward the blackened ruins, where men were still raking 
 and probing. 
 
 § 2. From November the Hventy-ninth to December the 
 second. 
 
 The smoldering remnants of the Three Tranters Inn seemed 
 to promise that, even when the searchers should light upon the 
 remains of the unfortunate Mrs. Manston, very little would be 
 discoverable. 
 
 Consisting so largely of the charcoal and ashes of hard dry 
 oak and chestnut, intermingled with thatch, the interior of the 
 heap was one glowing mass of embers, which on being stirred 
 about emitted sparks and flame long after it was dead and 
 black on the outside. It was persistently hoped, however, that 
 some traces of the body would survive the elTect of the hot coals 
 and after a search pursued uninterruptedly for thirty hours, 
 under the direction of Manston himself, enough was found to 
 set at rest any doubts of her fate. 
 
 The melancholy gleanings consisted of her watch, bunch of 
 keys, a few coins, and two charred and blackened bones. 
 
 Tv,-o days later the official inquiry into the cause of her death 
 was held at the Traveler's Rest Inn, before Mr. Floy, the 
 coroner, and a jury of the chief inhabitants of the district. The 
 little tavern — the only remaining one in the village — was 
 crowded to excess by the neighboring peasantry as well as 
 their richer employers: all w'ho could by any possibility obtain 
 an hour's release from their duties being present as listeners. 
 
 The jury viewed the sad and infinitesimal remains, which 
 were folded in a white cambric cloth, and laid in the middle 
 of a well-finished coffin lined with white silk (by Manston's 
 order), which stood in an adjoining room, the bulk of the 
 coffin being completely filled in with carefully arranged 
 flowers and evergreens — also the steward's own doing. 
 
1S4 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Abraham Brown, of Hoxton, London — an old whilc-hcadcd 
 man, wiiliout the rudcHncss which makes white hairs so 
 pleasing — was sworn, and deposed that he kt-pt a lodging- 
 house at an addrjss he named. On a Saturday evening less 
 than a month before the fire, a lady came to him, with very 
 little luggage, and took the front room on the second floor. 
 He did not inquire where she came from, as she paid a week 
 in advance, but she gave her name as Mrs. Manston, refer- 
 ring him. if he wished for any guarantee of her respectability, 
 to Mr. Man.ston, Knapwater Park, near Froominster. Here 
 she lived for three weeks, rarely going out. She slept away 
 from her lodgings one night during the time; at the end of 
 that time, on the twenty-eighth of November, she left his 
 house in a four-wlijeled cab, about twelve o'clock in the day, 
 telling the driver to take her to the Waterloo station. She 
 paid all her lodging expenses, and not having given notice 
 the full week previous to her going away, ofTercd to pay for 
 the next, but he only tO':)k half. She wore a thick black 
 veil, and gray water-proof cloak, when she left him. and 
 her luggage was two boxes, done of plain deal, with black 
 japanned clamps, the other sewn up in canvas. 
 
 Joseph Chinney, porter of the Carri ford- Road station, 
 deposed that he saw Mrs. Manston, dressed as tlie last wit- 
 ness had described, get out of a second-class carriage on the 
 night of the twenty-eighth. She stood beside him while her 
 luggage was taken from the van. The luggage, consisting 
 of tlie clamped deal box and another covered with canvas, 
 was placed in the cloak-room. She seemed at a loss at find- 
 ing nobody there to meet her. She asked him for some 
 person to accompany her. and carry her bag to Mr. Man- 
 sion's house, Knapwater Park. He was just off duty at that 
 time, and offered t ) go himself. The witness here repeated 
 the conversation he had had with Mrs. Manston during their 
 walk, and testified to having left her at the door of the Three 
 Tranters Imi, Mr. Manston's house Ixing closed. 
 
 Next Farmer Springrove was called. A murmur of sur- 
 prise and conuniscration passed round the crowded room 
 when he stepped fonvard. 
 
 The events of the few preceding days had so worked upon 
 his nen-ously thoughtful nature, that the blue orbits of his 
 eyes, and the mere .spot of scarlet to which the ruddiness of 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 185 
 
 his cheeks had contracted, seemed the result of a heavy sick- 
 ness. A perfect silence pervaded the assembly when he spoke. 
 
 His statement was that he received Mrs. Manston at the 
 threshold, and asked her to enter the parlor. She would not 
 do so, and stood in the passage while the maid went upstairs 
 to see that the room was in order. The maid came down to 
 the middle landing of the staircase, when Mrs. Manston fol- 
 lowed her up to the room. He did not speak ten words 
 with her altogether. 
 
 Afterward, while he was standing at the door listening for 
 his son Edward's return, he saw her light extinguished, hav- 
 ing first caught sight of her shadow moving about the room. 
 
 The Coroner: "Did her shadow appear to be that of a 
 woman undressing?" 
 
 Springrove: "I cannot say, as I didn't take particular 
 notice. It moved backward and forward: she might have 
 been undressing or merely pacing up and down the room." 
 
 Mrs. Fitler, the hostler's wife, and chambermaid, said that 
 she preceded Mrs. Manston into the room, put down the 
 candle and went out. Mrs. Manston scarcely spoke to her, 
 except to ask her to bring a little brandy. Witness went and 
 fetched it from the bar, brought it up, and put it on the dress- 
 ing-table. 
 
 The Coroner: "Had Mrs. Manston begun to undress when 
 you came back?" 
 
 "No, sir; she was sitting on the bed, with everything on, 
 as when she came in." 
 
 "Did she begin to undress before you left?" 
 
 "Not exactly before I had left; but when I had closed the 
 door, and was on the landing, I heard her boot drop on the 
 floor, as it does sometimes when pulled off." 
 
 "Had her face appeared worn and sleepy?" 
 
 "I cannot say, as her bonnet and veil were stilV on when 
 I left, for she seemed rather shy and ashamed to be seen at 
 the Three Tranters at all." 
 
 "And did you hear or see any more of her?" 
 
 "No more, sir." 
 
 Mrs. Crickett, provisional servant to Mr. Manston, said 
 that in accordance with Mr. Manston's orders, everything 
 had been made comfortable in the house for Mrs. Manston's 
 expected return on Monday night. INIr. Manston told her 
 
18G desperatl: remedies. 
 
 that himself and Mrs. Manston would be home late, not till 
 between eleven and twelve o'clock, and that supi)er was to 
 be ready. Not expecting Mrs. Manston so early, she had 
 gone out on a very imixjrtant errand to Mrs. Leat's, the post- 
 mistress. 
 
 Mr. Manston deposed that in looking down the columns of 
 "Bradshaw" he had mistaken the time of the train's arrival, 
 and hence was not at the station when she came. The broken 
 watch produced was his wife's — he knew it by a scratch on 
 the inner plate, and by other signs. The bunch of keys 
 belonged to her; two of them fitted the locks of her Uvo 
 bo.xes. 
 
 Mr. Flooks, agent to Lord Claydonfield at Chettlewood, 
 said that Mr. Manston had pleaded as his excuse for leaving 
 him rather early in the evening after their day's business had 
 been settled, that he was going to meet his wife at Carriford- 
 Road station, where she was coming by the last train that 
 night. 
 
 The surgeon said that the remains were those of a human 
 being. The small fragment seemed a portion of one of the 
 lumbar vertebrae — the other the extreme end of the os fem- 
 oris — but they were both so far gone that it was impossible 
 to say definitely whether they belonged to the body of a male 
 or female. There was no moral doubt that they were a 
 woman's. He did not believe that death resulted from burn- 
 ing by fire. He thought she was crushed by the fall of the 
 west gable, which being of wood, as well as the floor, burned 
 after it had fallen, and consumed the body with it. 
 
 Two or three additional witnesses gave unimportant testi- 
 mony. 
 
 The coroner summed up, and the jury without hesitation 
 fcnmd that the deceased Mrs. Manston came to her death 
 accidentally through the burning of the Three Tranters Inn. 
 
 § 3. Dcconber the scconJ. Aficrnoon. 
 
 \\'hcn Mr. Springrove came from the door of the Travel- 
 er's Rest at the end of the inquiry. Manston walked by his side 
 as far 0-=; tlu' sfil(> f<> the n.Trk. a (list.Tiu-c of about a stone's 
 throw. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 187 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Springrove, this is a sad affair for everybody 
 concerned." 
 
 "Everybody," said the old farmer, with deep sadness; "'tis 
 quite a misery to me. I hardly know how I shall live through 
 each day as it breaks. I think of the words, 'In the morning 
 thou shalt say, Would God it were even! and at even thou 
 shalt say, Would God it were morning! for the fear of thine 
 heart wherewith thou shalt fear, and for the sight of thine 
 eyes which thou shalt see.' " His voice became broken. 
 
 "Ah — true. I read Deuteronomy myself," said Manston. 
 
 "But my loss is as nothing to yours," the farmer continued. 
 
 "Nothing; but I can commiserate you. I should be worse 
 than unfeeling if I didn't, although my own affliction is of so 
 sad and solemn a kind. Indeed my own loss makes me more 
 keenly alive to yours, different in nature as it is." 
 
 "What sum do you think would be required of me to put 
 the houses in place again?" 
 
 "I have roughly- thought six or seven hundred pounds." 
 
 "If the letter of the law is to be acted up to," said the old 
 man with more agitation in his voice. 
 
 "Yes, exactly." 
 
 "Do you know enough of Miss Aldclyffe's mind to give 
 me an idea of how she means to treat me?" 
 
 "Well, I am afraid I must tell you that though I know 
 very little of her mind as a rule, in this matter I believe she 
 will be rather peremptory; she might share to the extent of 
 a sixth or an eighth perhaps, in consideration of her getting 
 new lamps for old, but I should hardly think more." 
 
 The steward stepped upon the stile, and Mr, Springrove 
 went along the road with a bowed head and heavy footsteps 
 toward his niece's cottage, in which, rather against the wish 
 of Edward, they had temporarily taken refuge. 
 
 The additional weight of this knowledge soon made itself 
 perceptible. Though in-doors with Edward or Adelaide nearly 
 the whole of the afternoon, nothing more than monosyllabic 
 replies could be drawn from him. Edward continually dis- 
 covered him looking fixedly at the wall or floor, quite uncon- 
 scious of another's presence. At supper he ate just as usual, 
 but quite mechanically, and with the same abstraction. 
 
DESPEHATH REMEDIES. 
 
 § 4. JJi-it)!U cf i/u- inttii. 
 
 The next morning' he was in no better si)irits. Afternoon 
 came; his son was alarmed, and managed to draw from him 
 an account of the conversation with tiie steward. 
 
 "Nonsense! he knows nothing: about it," said Edward, 
 vehemently. "I'll see Miss AldclyfTe myself. Now promise 
 me, father, that you'll not believe till I come back, and tell 
 you to believe it, that Miss AldclyfTe will do any such unjust 
 thing." 
 
 Edward started at once for Knapwatcr House. He strode 
 rapidly along the high-road, till he reached a wicket a few 
 yards below the brow of P>uckshead Hill, where a foot-path 
 allowed of a short cut to the mansion. Here he leaned down 
 upon the bars for a few minutes, meditating as to the best 
 manner of opening his speech, and surveying the scene before 
 him in that absent mood which takes oognizance of little 
 things without being conscious of them at the time, though 
 they appear in the eye afterward as vivid impressions. It 
 was a yellow, lustrous, late-autumn day, one of those days 
 of the quarter when morning and evening seem to meet 
 ti:)gcther without the intcr\cntion of a noon. The clear yellow 
 sunlight had tempted forth Miss AldclyfTe herself, who was 
 at this same time taking a walk in the direction of the village. 
 As Springrove lingered he heard behind the plantation a 
 woman's dress brushing along amid the prickly husks and 
 leaves which had fallen into the path from the boughs of 
 the chestnut trees. In another minute she stood in front c\ 
 him. 
 
 He answered her casual greeting respectfully, and was about 
 to request a few minutes' conversation with her. when she 
 directly addressed him on the subject of the fire. "It is a sad 
 misfortune for your father," she said, "and I hear that he has 
 lately let his insurances expire?" 
 
 "He has, madam, and you are probably aware that either 
 by the general tenns of his holding, or the same coupled 
 with the origin of the fire, the disaster may involve the neces- 
 sity of his rebuilding the whole row of houses, or else of 
 becoming a debtor to the estate, to the extend of some hun- 
 dreds of pounds?" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 189 
 
 She assented; "I have been thinking of it," she went on, 
 and then repeated in substance the words put into her moutli 
 by the steward. Some disturbance of thought might have 
 been fancied as taking place in Springrove's mind during 
 her statement, but before she had reached the end, his eyes 
 were clear, and directed upon her. 
 
 "I don't accept your conditions of release," he said. 
 
 "They are not conditions exactly." 
 
 "Well, whatever they are not, they are very uncalled-for 
 remarks." 
 
 "Not at all — the houses have been burned by your family's 
 negligence." 
 
 "I don't refer to the houses — you have of cour-se the best 
 of all rights to speak of that matter; but you, a stranger to 
 me comparatively, have no right at all to volunteer opinions 
 and wishes upon a very delicate subject, which concerns no 
 living beings but Miss Graye, Aiiss Hinton, and myself." 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe, like a good many others in her position, 
 had plainly not realized that a son of her tenant and inferior 
 could have become an educated man, who had learned to feel 
 his individuality, to view society from a Bohemian stand- 
 point, far outside the farming grade in Carrlford parish, and 
 that hence he had all a developed man's unorthodox opinion 
 about the subordination of classes. And fully conscious of 
 the labyrinth into which he had w^andered between his wish 
 to behave honorably in the dilemma of his engagement to 
 his cousin Adelaide, and the intensity of his love for Cytherea, 
 Springrove was additionally sensitive to any allusion to the 
 case. He had spoken to Miss Aldclyffe with considerable 
 warmth. 
 
 And Miss Aldclyfife was not a woman likely to be far 
 behind any second person in warming to a mood of defiance. 
 It seemed as Sf she was prepared to put up with a cold refusal, 
 but that her haughtiness resented a criticism of her conduct 
 ending in a rebuke. By this, Manston's discreditable object, 
 which had been made hers by compulsion only, was now 
 adopted by choice. She flung herself into the work. 
 
 A fiery man in such a case would have relinquished per- 
 suasion and tried palpable force. A fiery woman added 
 unscrupulousness and evolved daring strategy; and in her 
 obstinacy, and to sustain herself as mistress, she descended 
 
 13 
 
I'JO DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 to an action tlic meanness of which liauntcnl her conscience 
 to her (iyinj^ honr. 
 
 "1 don't cjuite see, Mr. Springrove," she said, "that I am 
 aUogether wliat you are pleased to call a stranger. I have 
 known your family, at any rate, for a good many years, and 
 I know Miss Grayc particularly well, and her state of mind 
 with regard to this matter." 
 
 Perplexed love makes us credulous and curious as old 
 women. Edward was willing, he owned it to himself, to 
 get at Cytherea's state of mind, even through so dangerous 
 a medium. 
 
 "A letter I received from her," he said, with assumed cold- 
 ness, "tells me clearly enough what Miss Grayc's mind is." 
 
 "You think she still loves you? Oh, yes, of course you do 
 — all men are like that." 
 
 "I have reason to." He could feign no further than the 
 first speech. 
 
 "1 should be interested in knowing what reason?" she said, 
 with sarcastic archness. 
 
 Edward felt he was allowing her to do, in fractional parts, 
 what he rebelled against when regarding it as a whole; but 
 the fact that his antagonist had the presence of a queen, and 
 features only in the early evening of their beauty, Avas not 
 witliout its influence upon a keenly conscious man. Her 
 bearing had charmed him into toleration, as Mar>' Stuart's 
 charmed the indignant Puritan visitors. He again answered 
 her honestly. 
 
 "The best of reasons — the tone of her letter." 
 
 "Pooh. Mr. Springrove!" 
 
 "Not at all, Miss AldclyfFe! Miss Graye desired that wc 
 should be strangers to each other for the simple practical 
 reason that intimacy could only make wretched complications 
 worse, not from lack of love — love is only suppressed." 
 
 "Don't you know yet. that in thus putting aside a man, 
 a woman's pity for the pain she inflicts gives her a kindness 
 of tone which is often mistaken for suppressed love?" said 
 Miss AldclyfTe. with soft insidiousness. 
 
 This was a translation of the ambiguity of Cytherea's tone 
 which he had certainly never thought of; and he was too 
 ingenuous not to own it. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 191 
 
 "I had never thought of it," he said. 
 
 "And don't believe it?" 
 
 "Not unless there was some other evidence to support the 
 view." 
 
 She paused a minute and then began hesitatingly. 
 
 "My intention was — what I did not dream of owning to 
 you — my intention was to try to induce you to fulfill your 
 promise to I\Iiss Hinton, not solely on her account and yours 
 (though partly). I love Cytherea Graye with all my soul, 
 and I Vv'ant to see her happy even more than I do you. I 
 do not mean to drag her name into the afTair at all, but I am 
 driven to say that she wrote that letter of dismissal to you — ■ 
 for it was a most pronounced dismissal — not on account of 
 your engagement. She is old enough to know that engage- 
 ments can be broken as easily as they can be made. She 
 wrote it because she loved another man; very suddenly, and 
 not with any idea or hope of marrying him, but none the less 
 dccplv." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Mr. Manston." 
 
 "Good ! I can't listen to you for an instant, madam; 
 
 why, she hadn't seen him!" 
 
 "She had ; he came here the day before she wrote to you ; 
 and I could prove to you, if it were worth while, that on 
 that day, she went voluntarily to his house, though not art- 
 fully or blamably; stayed for two hours playing and singing; 
 that no sooner did she leave him than she went straight 
 home, and wrote the letter saying she should not see you 
 again, entirely because she had seen him and fallen des- 
 perately in love with him — a perfectly natural thing for a 
 young girl to do, considering that he's the handsomest man 
 in the county. Why else should she not have written to you 
 before?" 
 
 "Because I was such a — because she did not know of the 
 connection between me and my cousin until then." 
 
 "I must think she did." 
 
 "On what ground?" 
 
 "On the strong ground of my having told her so, dis- 
 tinctly, the very first day she came to live with me." 
 
 "Well, what do you seek to impress upon me after all? 
 This — that the day Miss Graye wrote to me, saying it was 
 
 13 
 
1D2 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 better we should part, coincided with the day she had seen a 
 certain man — " 
 
 "A remarkably handsome and talented man." 
 
 "Yes. I admit that." 
 
 "And that it coincided with tlie hour just subsequent to 
 her seein.ij him." 
 
 "Yes, just when she had seen him." 
 
 "And been to his hoTise alone with him." 
 
 "It is nothinj:^." 
 
 "And stayed there playing- and singing" with him." 
 
 "Admit that, too," he said: "an accitlent might have 
 caused it." 
 
 "And at the same instant that she wrote your dismissal 
 she wrote a letter referring to a secret appointment with him." 
 
 "Xever, by God, madam! never!" 
 
 "What do you say, sir?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 She sneered. 
 
 "There's no accounting for beliefs, and the whole history 
 is a very trivial matter; but I am resolved to prove that a 
 lady's word is truthful, though ui)oii a matter which con- 
 cerns neither you nor herself. You shall learn that she did 
 write him a letter concerning an assignation — that is, if Mr. 
 .Manston still has it, and will be considerate enough to lend 
 it me." 
 
 "lUit besides," continued Edward, "a married man to do 
 what would cause a young girl to write a note of the kind 
 vou mention!" 
 
 She flushed a little. 
 
 "That I don't know anything about," she stammered. "But 
 Cytherea didn't, of course, dream any more than I did, or 
 others in the parish, that he was married." 
 
 "Of course she didn't." 
 
 "And I have reason to believe that he told her of the fact 
 directly afterward, that she might not compromise herself, 
 or allow him to. It is notorious that he struggled honestly 
 and hard against her attractions, and succeeded in hiding 
 his feelings, if not in quenching them." 
 
 "\\Y^'ll "hope that he did." 
 
 "But circumstances are changed now." 
 
 "\'cry greatly changed," he murmured, abstractedly. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 193 
 
 "You must remember," she added, more suasively, "that 
 Miss Graye has a perfect right to do what she hkes with her 
 own — her heart, that is to say." 
 
 Her descent from irritation was caused by perceiving that 
 Edward's faith was reaUy disturbed by her strong assertions, 
 and it gratified her. 
 
 Edward's thoughts flew to his father and the object of his 
 interview with her. Tongue fencing was utterly distasteful 
 to him. 
 
 "I will not trouble you by remaining longer, madam," he 
 remarked, gloomily ; "our conversation has ended sadly 
 for me." 
 
 "Don't think so," she said, "and don't be mistaken. I 
 am older than you are, many years older, and I know many 
 things." 
 
 Full of miserable doubt, and bitterly regretting that he had 
 raised his father's expectations by anticipations impossible 
 of fulfillment, Edward slowly wended his way into the village, 
 and approached his cousin's house. The farmer was at the 
 door looking eagerly for him. He had been waiting there 
 for more than half an hour. His eye kindled quickly. 
 
 "Well, Ted, what does she say?" he asked, in the intensely 
 sanguine tones w^iich fall sadly upon a listener's ear, because, 
 antecedently, they raise pictures of inevitable disappointment 
 for the speaker, in some direction or another. 
 
 "Nothing for us to be alarmed at," said Edward, with a 
 forced cheerfulness. 
 
 "But must we rebuild?" 
 
 "It seems we must, father." 
 
 The old man's eye swept the horizon, then he turned to 
 go in, without making another observation. All light seemed 
 extinguished in him again. When Edward went in he found 
 his father with the bureau open, unfolding the leases with a 
 shaking hand, folding them up again without reading them, 
 then putting them in their niche only to remove them again. 
 
 Adelaide was in the room. She said thoughtfully to Edward, 
 as she watched the farmer: 
 
 "I hope it won't kill poor uncle, Edward. What should 
 we do if anything were to happen to him? He is the only 
 near relative you and I have in the world." It was perfectly 
 
 13 
 
194 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 truf, and somehow Edward ftlt more bound up witli licr 
 after that remark. 
 
 She continued, "And he was only saying so hopefully, the 
 day before the fire, that he wouldn't for the world let any one 
 else give me away to you when we arc married." 
 
 For the first time a conscientious doubt arose in Edward's 
 mind as to the justice of the course he was pursuing in resolv- 
 ing to refuse the alternative offered by Miss Aldclyflfe. Could 
 it be selfishness as well as independence? H<)w much he 
 had thought of his own heart; how little he had thought of 
 his father's peace of mind! 
 
 The old man did not speak again till supper-time, when 
 he began asking his son an endless number of hyjiothetical 
 questions on what might induce Miss AldclyfTc to listen to 
 kinder terms: speaking of her now not as an unfair woman, 
 but as a Lachesis or Fate whose course it behooved nobody 
 to condemn. In his earnestness he once turned his eyes on 
 Edward's face; their expression was woful; the pupils were 
 dilated and strange in aspect. 
 
 "If she will only agree to that!" he reiterated for the hun- 
 dreilth time, increasing the sadness of his listeners. 
 
 An ari.stocratic knocking came to the door, and Jane 
 entered with a letter, addressed : 
 
 "Mr. Edward Springrove, Junior." 
 
 "Charles from Knapwater House brought it." she said. 
 
 "Miss AldclyfTe's writing." said Mr. Springrove. before 
 Edward had recognized it himself. "Now 'tis all right! she's 
 going to make an offer; she doesn't want the houses there, 
 not slie; they are going to make that the way into the park." 
 
 Edward opened the seal and glanced at the inside. He 
 said, with a supreme effort of self-c»Mimiand: 
 
 "It is only directed by Miss Aldclyffc, and refers to noth- 
 ing connected with the fire. I wonder at her taking the 
 trouble to send it to-night." 
 
 His father looked absently at him. and turned away again. 
 
 Shortly afterward they retired for the night. Alone in his 
 btvlroom Edward opened and read what he had not dared 
 to refer to in their presence. 
 
 The envelope contained anotlier (.nvelope in Cythcrca's 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 195 
 
 handwriting, addressed to " — Manston, Esq., Old Manor 
 House." Inside this was the note she had written to the 
 steward after her detention in his house by the thunder-storm: 
 
 "Knapwater House, September 20th. 
 "I find I cannot meet you at seven o'clock by the waterfall 
 as I promised. The emotion I felt made me forgetful of 
 realities. C. Graye." 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe had not written a line, and, by the unvary- 
 ing rule observable when words are not an absolute necessity, 
 her silence seemed ten times as convincing as any expression 
 of opinion could have been. 
 
 He then, step by step, recalled all the conversation on the 
 subject of Cytherea's feelings that had passed between him- 
 self and Miss Aldclyffe in the afternoon, and by a confusion 
 of thought, natural enough under the trying experience, con- 
 cluded that because the lady was truthful in her portraiture 
 of elifects, she must necessarily be right in her assumption of 
 causes. That is, he was convinced that Cytherea — the hitherto- 
 believed-faithful Cytherea — had, at any rate, looked with some- 
 thing more than indifference upon the extremely handsome 
 face and form of Manston. 
 
 Did he blame her, as guilty of the impropriety of allowing 
 herself to love him in the face of his not being free to return 
 her love? No; never for a moment did he doubt that all 
 had occurred in her old, innocent, impulsive way; that her 
 heart was gone before she knew it — before she knew anything, 
 beyond his existence, of the man to whom it had flown. 
 Perhaps the very note inclosed to him was the result of first 
 reflection. Manston he would unhesitatingly have called a 
 scoundrel, but for one strikingly redeeming fact. It had 
 been patent to the whole parish, and had come to Edward's 
 own knowledge by that indirect channel, that Manston, as 
 a married man, conscientiously avoided Cytherea after those 
 first few days of his arrival during which her irresistibly 
 beautiful and fatal glances had rested upon him — his upon 
 her. 
 
 Taking from his coat a creased and pocket-worn envelope 
 containing Cytherea's letter to himself, Springrove opened 
 it and read it through. He was upbraided therein, and he 
 
19« DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 was dismissed. It bore the date of tlie letter sent to Manston, 
 and by containinj:; uilliin it the phrase, "All the day long I 
 liave been thinking," afforded jnstifiable ground for assum- 
 ing that it was written subsequently to the other (and in 
 Edward's sight far sweeter) one, to tiie steward. 
 
 But though he accused her of fickleness, he would not 
 doubt the genuineness, of its kind, of her partiality for him 
 at Creston. It was a short and shallow feeling; not genuine 
 love. 
 
 "Love is not love. 
 Which alters when it alteration flnds." 
 
 But it was nut flirtation; a feeling had been born in her 
 and had died. It would be well for his peace of mind if his 
 love for her could flit away so softly, and leave so few traces 
 behind. 
 
 Miss AldclyfTe had shown herself desperately concerned in 
 the whole matter by the alacrity with which she had obtained 
 the letter from Manston, and her labors to induce himself to 
 marry his cousin. Taken in connection with her apparent in- 
 terest in, if not love for, Cytherea. her eagerness, too, could only 
 be accounted for on the ground that Cytherea indeed loved the 
 steward. 
 
 § 5. Dticmbcr the fourth. 
 
 Edward passed the night he scarcely knew how. tossing 
 feverishly from side to side, the blood throbbing in his temples 
 and singing in his cars. 
 
 As soon as day began to break he dressed himself. On going 
 out upon the landing he found his father's bedroom door 
 already open. Edward concluded that the old man had risen 
 softly, as was his wont, and gone out into the fields to start the 
 laborers. 
 
 But neither of the outer doors were unfastened. 
 
 He entered the front room, and found it empty. Then ani- 
 mated by a new idea, he went round to the little back parlor, 
 in which the few wrecks saved from the fire were deposited, 
 and l<K>ked in at the door. Here, near the window, the 
 shutters of which had been opened half way, he saw his father 
 leaning on the bureau, his elbows resting on the flap, his body 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 197 
 
 nearly doubled, his hands clasphig his forehead. Beside him 
 were ghostly-looking square folds of parchment — the leases of 
 tlic houses destroyed. 
 
 His father looked up when Edward entered, and wearily 
 spoke to the young man as his face came into the faint light: 
 
 "Edward, why did you get up so early?" 
 
 "I was uneasy, and could not sleep." 
 
 The farmer turned again to the leases on the bureau, and 
 seemed to become lost in reflection. In a minute or two, with- 
 out lifting his eyes, he said: 
 
 "This is more than w^e can bear, Ted, more than we can 
 bear! Ted, this will kill me. Not the loss only — the sense of 
 my neglect about the insurance and everything. Borrow I 
 never will. 'Tis all misery now. God help us — all misery now!" 
 
 Edward did not answer, continuing to look fixedly at the 
 dreary daylight outside. 
 
 "Ted," the farmer went on, "this upset of been burned out 
 o' home makes me very nervous and doubtful about everything. 
 There's this troubles me besides — our liven here with your 
 cousin, and fillen up her house. It must be very awkward for 
 her. But she says she doesn't mind. Have you said anything 
 to her lately about when you are going to marry her?" 
 
 "Nothing at all lately." 
 
 "W^ell, perhaps you may as well, now we are so mixed in to- 
 gether. You know, no time has ever been mentioned to her 
 at all, first or last, and I think it right that now, since she has 
 waited so patiently and so Icng — you are almost called upon 
 to say you are ready. It would simplify matters very much, 
 if you were to w-alk up to the church wa' her one of these morn- 
 ings, get the thing done, and go on liven here as we are. If 
 you don't I must get a house all the sooner. It would lighten 
 my mind, too, about the two little freeholds over the hill — 
 not a morsel apiece, divided as they were between her mother 
 and me, but a tidy bit tied together again. Just think about it, 
 will ye, Ted?" 
 
 He stopped from exhaustion produced by the intense con- 
 centration of his mind upon the weary subject, and looked 
 anxiously at his son. 
 
 "Yes, I will," said Edward. 
 
 "But I am going to see her of the Great House this morn- 
 ing," the farmer went on, his thoughts reverting to the old 
 
198 DESPERATR REMEDIES. 
 
 sul)jcct. "I iniisl know the lij^hls of the matter, the when aiu' 
 the where. I don't Hke seen lier, but I'd rather talk to her than 
 the steward. I wonder what she'll say to me." 
 
 The younjjer man knew e.xactly what she would say. If his 
 father asked her what he was to do, and when, she would sim- 
 l>ly refer him to Mansion: her character was not that of a 
 wt)man who shrank from a proposition she had once laid down. 
 If iiis father were to say to lier that his son had at last resolved 
 to marry his cousin within the year, and had piven her a prom- 
 ise to that effect, she would say. ".Mr. Springrove, the houses 
 are burned; we'll let them go; trouble no more about them." 
 
 His mind was alreatly made up. He said calmly, "Father, 
 when you are talking to Miss .MdclytTe, mention to her that 
 1 have asked Adelaide if she is willing to marry me next Christ- 
 mas. She is interested in my union with Adelaide, and the 
 news will be welcome to her." 
 
 "And yet she can be iron with reference to me and her prop- 
 erty," the farmer murmured. "Very well, Ted, I'll tell her." 
 
 § 6. Dcccmbn- the fifth. 
 
 Of the many contradictory i)articulars constituting a 
 woman's heart, two had shown tlicir vigorous contrast in Cy- 
 therea's l)osom just at this time. 
 
 It was a dark morning, the morning after old Mr. Spring- 
 rove's visit to Miss .Mdclyffe, which had terminated as Edward 
 had intended. Having risen an hour earlier than was usual 
 with her, Cytherea sat at the window of an elogant little sitting- 
 room on the ground floor, which had been appropriated to her 
 bv the kindness or whim of Miss AldclyfTe, that she might not 
 be tlriven into that lady's presence against her will. She leaned 
 with her face on her hand, looking out into the gloomy gray 
 air. A yellow glimmer from the flajiping flame of the newly lit 
 fire fluttered on one side of her face and ntck like a butterfly 
 about to settle there, contrasting warmly with the other side 
 of the same fair face, which received from the window the f.iint 
 cold morning light, so weak that her shadow from the fire had 
 a distinct outline on tJie window-.shutter in spite of it There 
 the shadow danced like a demon, blue and grim. 
 
 The contradiction alluded to was that in spite of the decisive 
 mood which two months earlier in the year had caused her td 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 199 
 
 write a peremptory and final letter to Edward, she was now 
 hoping for some answer other than the only possible one a 
 man who, as she held, did not love her wildly, could send to 
 such a communication. For a lover who did love wildly, she 
 had left one little loophole in her otherwise straightforward 
 epistle. Why she expected the letter on some morning of this 
 particular week was, that hearing of his return to Carriford, 
 she fondly assumed that he meant to ask for an interview before 
 he left. Hence it was, too, that for the last few days she had 
 not been able to keep in bed later than the time of the postman's 
 arrival. 
 
 The clock pointed to half-past seven. She saw the postman 
 emerge from beneath the bare boughs of the park trees, come 
 through the wicket, dive through the shrubbery, reappear on the 
 lawn, stalk across it without reference to paths — as country 
 postmen do — and come to the porch. She heard him fling the 
 bag down on the seat, and turn away toward the village, with- 
 out hindering himself for a single pace. 
 
 Then the butler opened the door, took up the bag, brought 
 it in, and carried it up the staircase to place it on the slab by Miss 
 Aldclyfife's dressing-room door. The whole proceeding had 
 been depicted .by sounds. 
 
 She had a presentiment that her letter was in the bag at last. 
 She thought then in diminishing pulsations of confidence, "He 
 asks to see me! perhaps he asks to see me: I hope he asks to 
 see me." 
 
 A quarter to eight : Miss Aldclyfife's bell — rather earlier than 
 usual. "She must have heard the post-bag brought," said the 
 maiden, as, tired of the chilly prospect outside, she turned to 
 the fire, and drew imaginative pictures of her future therein. 
 
 A tap came to the door, and the lady's maid entered. "Miss 
 Aldclyfife is awake," she said, "and she asked if you were mov- 
 ing yet, miss." 
 
 "I'll run up to her," said Cytherea, and flitted ofif with the 
 utterance of the words. "Very fortunate this," she thought; 
 "I shall see what is in the bag this morning all the sooner." 
 
 She took it up from the side table, went into Miss Aldclyfife's 
 bedroom, pulled up the blinds, and looked round upon the 
 lady in bed, calculating the minutes that must elapse before she 
 looked at her letters. 
 
 "Well, darling, how are you? I am glad you have come in 
 
:00 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 to see me," said Miss AldclyfTe. "You can unlock the bag this 
 morning, child, if you hkc," she continued, yawning facti- 
 tiously. 
 
 "Strange!" Cythcrea thought; "it seems as if she knew there 
 was likely to be a letter for me." 
 
 IVom her bed Miss AldclyfFe watched the girl's face as she 
 trLinblingly opened the post-bag and found there an envelope 
 addressee! to her in Edward's handwriting; one he had written 
 the day bef jre, after the decision he had come to on an impar- 
 tial, and on that account torturing, sun'cy of his own, his 
 father's, his cousin Adelaide's, and what he believed to be Cy- 
 therea's position. 
 
 The haughty mistress' soul sickened remorsefully within her 
 when she saw suddenly appear upon the speaking countenance 
 of tlie young lady before iier a wan, desolate look of agony. 
 
 The master-sentences of Edward's letter were these: "Vctu 
 speak truly. That we never meet again is the wisest and only 
 l)roj)er course. That I regret the past as much as you do your 
 self it is hardly necessar}' for me to say." 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF TEN MONTHS. 
 § I. December to April. 
 
 Week after week, month after month, the time had flown by. 
 Christmas had passed: dreary winter with dark evenings had 
 given place to more dreary winter with hght evenings. Thaws 
 had ended in rain, rain in wind, wind in dust. Showery days 
 had come — the period of pink dawns and white sunsets: with 
 the third week in April the cuckoo had appeared; with the 
 fourth, the nightingale. 
 
 Edward Springrove was in London, attending to the duties 
 of his new office, and it had become known throughout the 
 neighborhood of Carriford that the engagement between him- 
 self and ]\Iiss Adelaide Hinton would terminate in marriage at 
 the end of the year. 
 
 The only occasion on which her lover of the idle delicious 
 days at Creston watering-place had been seen by Cytherea after 
 the time of decisive correspondence was once in church, when 
 he sat in front of her, and beside Miss Hinton. 
 
 The rencontre was quite an accident. Springrove had come 
 there in the full belief that Cytherea was away from home with 
 jNIiss Aldclyfife; and he continued ignorant of her presence 
 throughout the service. 
 
 It is at such moments as these, when a sensitive nature 
 writhes under the conception that its most cherished emotions 
 have been treated with contumely, that the sphere-descended 
 Maid, Music, friend of Pleasure at other times, becomes a 
 positive enemy — racking, bewildering, unrelenting. 
 
 The congregation sang the first Psalm, and came to the 
 verse : 
 
 "Like some fair tree which, fed by streams, 
 With timely fruit doth bend, 
 He still shall floiu-ish, and success 
 All his designs attend." 
 
202 DESPEUATr: REMEDIES. 
 
 Cythcrca's lips did not move, nor did any sound escape her: 
 but could she help singing the words in the depths of her, 
 altiunigh the man to whom she applied them sat at her rival's 
 side? 
 
 Perhaps the moral comi)ensation for all a woman's petty 
 cleverness under thriving conditions is the real nobility that 
 lies in her extreme foolishness at these other times: her sheer 
 inability to be simply just, her exercise of an illogical power 
 entirely denied to men in general — the power not only of kiss- 
 ing, but of delighting to kiss the rod by a punctilious observ- 
 ance of the self-innnolating doctrines in the Sermon on the 
 Mount. 
 
 As for Edward — a little like other men of his temperament, 
 to whom, it is somewhat humiliating to think, the aberrancy 
 of a given love is in itself a recommendation — his sentiment, 
 as he looked over his cousin's book, was of a lower rank, 
 Horatian rather than Psalmodic: 
 
 "O. what hast thou of her, of her 
 Whose every look did love inspire; 
 Whose every breathing fanned my fire, 
 And stole me from myself away!" 
 
 Then, without letting him see her, Cytherea slipped out of 
 church early, and went home, the tones of the organ still linger- 
 ing in her ears as she tried bravely to kill a jealous thought 
 that would nevertheless live: "My nature is one capable of 
 more, far more, intense feeling than hers! She can't appreciate 
 all the sides of him — she never will! He is more tangible to me 
 even now, as a thought, than his presence itself is to her!" She 
 was less noble then. 
 
 Out she continually repressed her misery and bitterness of 
 heart till the effort to do so showed signs of lessening. At 
 length she even tried to hope that her lost lover aiul her rival 
 would love one another very dearly. 
 
 The scene and the sentiment dropped into the past. Mean- 
 while, Manston continued visibly before her. He, though quiet 
 and subdued in his bearing for a long time after the calamity 
 of Xovember, had not simulated a grief that he did not feel. 
 At first his loss seemed so to absorl> him — though as a star- 
 tling change rather than as a heavy sorrow — that he paid Cy- 
 therea no attention whatever. His contluct was uniformly kind 
 and respectful, but little mf)rc. Then, as the date of the catastro- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 203 
 
 phe grew remoter, he began to wear a different aspect toward 
 her. He ahvays contrived to obUterate by his manner all recol- 
 lection on her side that she was comparatively more dependent 
 than himself — making much of her womanhood, nothing of her 
 situation. Prompt to aid her whenever occasion offered, and 
 full of delightful peiits. soins at all times, he was not officious. 
 In this way he irresistibly won for himself a position as her 
 friend, and the more easily, in that he allowed not the faintest 
 symptom of the old love to be apparent. 
 
 Matters stood thus in the middle of the spring, when the next 
 move on his behalf was made by Miss Aldclyffe. 
 § 2. The third of May. 
 
 She led Cytherea to a summer-house called the Fane, built 
 in the private grounds about the mansion in the form of a 
 Grecian temple: it overlooked the lake, the island on it, the 
 trees, and their undisturbed reflection in the smooth still water. 
 Here the young and old maid halted: here they stood, side by 
 side, mentally imbibing the scene. 
 
 The month was May — the time, morning. Cuckoos, 
 thrushes, blackbirds and sparrows gave forth a perfect con- 
 fusion of song and twitter. The road was spotted white with 
 the fallen leaves of apple-blossoms, and the sparkling gray dew 
 still lingered on the grass and flowers. 
 
 Two swans floated into view in front of the women, and then 
 crossed the water toward them. 
 
 "They seem to come to us without any will of their own — 
 quite involuntarily — don't they?" said Cytherea, looking at the 
 birds' graceful advance. 
 
 "Yes, but if you look narrowly you can see their hips just 
 beneath the water, working with the greatest energy." 
 
 "I'd rather not see that, it spoils the idea of proud indifference 
 to direction which we associate with a swan." 
 
 "It does; we'll have 'involuntarily.' Ah, now this reminds 
 me of something." 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "Of a human being who involuntarily comes toward your- 
 self." 
 
 Cytherea looked into Miss Aldclyffe's face; hef eyes grew 
 round as circles, and lines of wonderment came visibly upon 
 her countenance. She had not once regarded Manston as a 
 
204 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 lover since his wife's sudden appearance and subsequent death. 
 Tlic death of a wife, and such a death, was an overwhelmiiii^ 
 matter in her ideas of things. 
 
 "Is it a man or a woman?" she said quite innocently. 
 
 ".Mr. Mansion," said Miss AldclyflFe quietly. 
 
 "Mr. Manston attracted by me now?" said Cytherea, standing' 
 at j^aze. 
 
 "Didn't you know it?" 
 
 "Certainly 1 did not. Why, his poor wife has only been dead 
 si.x months." 
 
 "Of course he knows that. But loving is not done by months, 
 or method, or rule, or nobody would ever have invented such a 
 phrase as "falling in love.' He does not want his love to be 
 observed just yet, on the very account you mention; but con- 
 ceal it as he may from himself and us, it exists definitely — and 
 very intensely, I assure you." 
 
 "I suppQse then, that if he can't help it, it is no harm of him," 
 said Cytherea naively, and beginning to ponder. 
 
 "Of course it isn't — you know that well enough. She was 
 a great burden and trouble to him. This may become a great 
 good to you both." 
 
 .\ rush of feeling at remembering that the same woman, 
 before Mansion's arrival, had just as frankly advocated Ed- 
 ward's claims, checked Cythcrea's utterance for awhile. 
 
 "There, don't look at me like that, for heaven's sake!" said 
 Miss AldclyfFe. "You could almost kill a person by the force 
 of reproach you can put into those eyes of yours, I verily 
 believe." 
 
 Edward once in the young lady's thoughts, there was no get- 
 ting rid of him. She wanted to be alone. 
 
 "Do you want me here?" she said. 
 
 "Xow there, there; you want to be off, and have a good cr\'," 
 said Miss .'Vldclyflfe, taking her hand. "But you mustn't, my 
 dear. There's nothing in the past for you to regret. Compare 
 Mr. Mansion's honorable conduct toward his wife and your- 
 self with Springrove's toward his betrothed and yourself, 
 and then see which appears the more worthy of your thoughts," 
 
 § 3. From the fourth of May to the twenty-first of June. 
 
 The next stage in Mansion's advances toward her hand was 
 a clearly defined courtship. She was sadly perplexed, and 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 205 
 
 some contrivance was necessary on his part in order to meet 
 with her. But it is next to impossible for an appreciative 
 woman to have a positive repugnance toward an unusually 
 handsome and talented man, even though she may not be 
 inclined to love him. Hence Cytherea was not so alarmed at 
 the sight of him as to render a meeting and conversation with 
 her more than a matter of difficulty. 
 
 Coming and going from church was his grand opportunity. 
 IManston was very religious now. It is commonly said that no 
 man was ever converted by argument, but there is a single one 
 which will make any Laodicean in England, let him be once 
 love-sick, wear prayer-books and become a zealous Episco- 
 palian — the argument that his sweetheart can be seen from his 
 pew. 
 
 Alanston introduced into his method a system of bewitching 
 flattery; everywhere pervasive, yet, too, so transitory and in- 
 tangible, that, as in the case of the poet Wadsworth and the 
 Wandering Voice, though she felt it present, she could never 
 find it. As a foil to heighten its effect, he occasionally spoke 
 philosophically of the evanescence of female beauty — the worth- 
 lessness of mere appearance. "Handsome is that handsome 
 does" he considered a proverb which should be written on the 
 looking-glass of every woman in the land. "Your form, your 
 motions, your heart have won me," he said in a tone of playful 
 sadness. "They are beautiful. But I see these things, and it 
 comes into my mind that they are doomed, they are gliding to 
 nothing as I look. Poor eyes, poor mouth, poor face, poor 
 maiden! 'Where will her glories be in twenty years?' I say. 
 'Where will all of her be in a hundred?' Then I think it is cruel 
 that you should bloom a day, and fade for ever and ever. It 
 seems hard and sad that you will die, as ordinarily as I, and be 
 buried ; be food for roots and worms, be forgotten and come to 
 earth, and grow up a mere blade of churchyard grass and an 
 ivy leaf. Then, Miss Graye, when I see you are a Lovely Noth- 
 ing, I pity you, and the love I feel then is better and sounder, 
 larger, and more lasting, than that I felt at the beginning." 
 Again an ardent flash of his handsome eyes. 
 
 It was by this route that he ventured on an indirect declara- 
 tion and offer of his hand. 
 
 She implied in the same indirect manner that she did not love 
 him enough to accept it. 
 
 14 
 
206 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 An actual refusal was more than he had expected. Cursin«]j 
 himself for what he called his egregious folly in making himself 
 the slave of a mere lady's attendant, and for having given the 
 parish, should they know of her refusal, a chance of sneering 
 at him — certainly a ground for thinking less of his standing 
 than before — he went home to the Old House, and walkctl 
 indecisively up and down his back yard. Turning aside, lu- 
 leaned his arms uj^on the edge of the rain-water butt standing 
 in the corner, and looked into it. The reflection from ih.e 
 smooth stagnant surface tinged his face with the grecnisli 
 shades of Correggio's nudes. Staves of sunlight slanted dowti 
 through the still pool, lighting it up with wonderful distinctness. 
 Hundreds of thousands of minute living creatures sported and 
 tumbled in its depths with every contortion that gayety could 
 suggest; perfectly happy, though consisting only of a head, 
 or a tail, or at most a head and a tail, and all doomed to die 
 within the twenty-four hours. 
 
 "D — n my position! Why shouldn't I be happy through my 
 little day, too? Let the parish sneer at my repulses, let it. I'll 
 get her, if I move heaven and earth to do it." 
 
 Indeed, the inexperienced Cythcrea had, toward Edward in 
 the first place, and Manston afterward, unconsciously adopted 
 bearings that would have been the very tactics of a professional 
 fisher of men who wished to have them each successively dan- 
 gling at her heels. For if any rule at all can be laid down in a 
 matter which, for men collectively, is notoriously beyond regu- 
 lation, it is that to snub a petted man. and to pet a snubbed 
 man, is the way to win in suits of botli kinds. Manston 
 with Springrove's encouragement would have become indif- 
 ferent. Edward with Mansion's repulses would have sheered 
 ofT at the outset, as he did afterward. Her supreme indifference 
 added fuel to Mansion's ardor — it completely disarmed his 
 pride. The invulnerable Nobody seemed greater to him than 
 a susceptible princess. 
 
 § 4. From the twenty- first of June to the end of July. 
 
 Cytherea had in the meantime received the foil ~»\ving letter 
 from her brother. It was the first flofinite notification of tlv 
 enlargement of that cloud no bigger than a man's hand which 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 207 
 
 had for nearly a twelvemonth hung before them in the distance, 
 and which was soon to give a color to their whole sky from 
 horizon to horizon: 
 
 "Creston, Saturday. 
 "Darling Sis: 
 
 "I have delayed telling you for a long time of a little matter 
 which, though not one to be seriously alarmed about, is suffi- 
 ciently vexing, and it would be unfair in me to keep it from you 
 any longer. It is that for some time past I have again been 
 distressed by that lameness which I first distinctly felt when we 
 went to Lewborne Bay, and again when I left Knapwater that 
 morning early. It is an unusual pain in my left leg, between the 
 knee and the ankle. I had just found fresh symptoms of it 
 when you were here for that half-hour about a month ago — 
 when you said in fun that I began to move like an old man. I 
 had a good mind to tell you then, but fancying it would go off 
 in a few days I thought it was not worth while. Since that time 
 it has increased, but I am still able to work in the office, sitting 
 on the stool. My great fear is that Mr. G. will have some out- 
 door measuring work for me to do soon, and that I shall be 
 obliged to decline. However, we will hope for the best. How 
 it came, what was its origin, or what it tends to, I cannot think. 
 You shall hear again in a day or two, if it is no better. . . . 
 
 "Your loving brother, 
 
 "Owen." 
 
 This she answered, begging to know the worst, which she 
 could bear, but suspense and anxiety never. In two days came 
 another letter from him, of which the subjoined paragraph is a 
 portion : 
 
 "I had quite decided to let you know the worst, and to 
 assure you that it was the worst, before you wrote to ask it. 
 And again I give you my word that I will conceal nothing 
 — so that there will be no excuse whatever for your wearing 
 yourself out with fears that I am worse than I say. This morn- 
 ing then, for the first time I have been obliged to stay away 
 from the office. Don't be frightened at this, dear Cytherea. 
 Rest is all that is wanted, and by nursing myself now for a week 
 I may avoid a sickness of six months." 
 
 After a visit from her he wrote again : 
 
 14 
 
208 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Dr. Chestman has seen me. He said that the aihtjcnt was 
 some sort of rheumatism, and I am now undergoing proper 
 treatment for its cure. My leg and foot have been placed in 
 hot bran, liniments have been applied, and also severe friction 
 with a pad. He says I shall be as right as ever in a very short 
 time. Directly I am I shall run up by the train to see you. 
 Don't trouble to come to me if Miss Aldclyffe grumbles again 
 
 about your being away, for I am going on capitally 
 
 You shall hear again at the end of the week." 
 
 At this time mentioned came the following: 
 
 "I am sorry to tell you, because I know it will be so disheart- 
 ening after my last letter, that I am not so well as I was then, 
 and tliat there has been a sort of hitch in the proceedings. After 
 I had been treated for rheumatism a few days longer (in which 
 treatment they pricked the place with a long needle several 
 times), I saw that Dr. Chestman was in doubt about something, 
 and I requested that he would call in a brother professional 
 man to sec me as well. They consulted together and then told 
 me that rheumatism was not the disease after all, but erysipelas. 
 They then began treating it differently, as became a different 
 matter. Blisters, flour, and starch seem to be the order of the 
 day now — medicine, of course, besides. 
 
 "Mr. Gradfield has been in to inquire about me. He says 
 he has been obliged to get a clerk in my place, which grieves 
 me very much, though, of course, it could not be avoided." 
 
 A month passed away. Throughout this period Cytherea 
 visited him as often as the limited time at her command would 
 allow, and wore as cheerful a countenance as the womanly de- 
 termination to do nothing which might depress him could 
 enable her to wear. Another letter from him then told of these 
 additional facts: 
 
 "The doctors find they are again on the wrong tack. They 
 cannot make out what the disease is. Oh. Cytherea! how 1 
 wish they knew! This suspense is wearing me out. Could not 
 Miss Aldclyffe spare you for a day? Do come to me. We will 
 talk about the best course then. I am sorry to complain. l>ut 
 I am worn out." 
 
 Cytherea went to Miss AldclyfTe. and told her of the melan- 
 choly turn her brother's illness had taken. Miss Aldclyffe at 
 once saifl that Cytherea might go, and offered to do anything to 
 assist her which lay in her power.* Cytherea's eyes beamed 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 209 
 
 gratitude as she turned to leave the room and hasten to the 
 station. 
 
 "Oh, Cytherea," said Miss Aldclyffe, calling her back; "just 
 one word. Has ISIr. Manston spoken to you lately?" 
 
 "Yes," said Cytherea, blushing timorously. 
 
 "He proposed?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you refused him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Tut, tut! Now listen to my advice," said Miss Aldclyffe 
 emphatically, "and accept him before, he changes his mind. The 
 chance which he offers you of settling in life is one that may 
 possibly, probably, not occur again. His position is good and 
 secure, and the life of his wife would be a happy one. You may 
 not be sure that you love him madly ; but suppose you are not 
 sure? Aly father used to say to me as a child when he was 
 teaching me whist, 'When in doubt win the trick.' That advice 
 is ten times as valuable to a .woman on the subject of matri- 
 mony. In refusing a man there is always the risk that you may 
 never get another offer." 
 
 "Why didn't you win the trick when you were a girl?" said 
 Cytherea. 
 
 "Come, my lady Pert, I'm not the text," said Miss Aldclyffe, 
 her face glowing like fire. 
 
 Cytherea laughed stealthily. 
 
 "I was about to say," resumed Miss Aldclyffe severely, "that 
 here is Mr. Alanston waiting with the tenderest solicitude for 
 you, and you overlooking it, as if it were altogether beneath 
 you. Think how you might benefit your sick brother if you 
 were i\Irs. Manston. You will please me very much by giving 
 him some encouragement. You understand me, dear?" 
 
 Cytherea was silent. 
 
 "And," said ]\Iiss Aldclyffe, still more emphatically, "on your 
 promising that you will accept him some time this year, I will 
 take especial care of your brother. You are listening, Cy- 
 therea." 
 
 "Yes," she whispered, leaving the room. 
 
 She went to Creston, and passed the day with her brother, 
 and returned to Knapwater wretched and full of foreboding. 
 Owen had looked startlingly thin and pale — thinner and paler 
 than ever she had seen him before. The brother and sister had 
 
 14 
 
■J DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 that day decided that, notwithstanding the drain upon their 
 slender resources, another medical man should sec him. Time 
 was everythinjij. 
 
 Owen told her the result in his next letter: 
 
 "The three practitioners between them have at last hit the 
 nail on the head, I hope. They probed the place and discov- 
 ered that the secret lay in the bone. I underwent an operation 
 for its removal three days ag^o (after taking chloroform). . . 
 'I^hank God it is over. Though I am so weak, my si)irits are 
 rather better. I wonder when I shall be at work again? I 
 asked the doctors how long it would be first. I said a month? 
 They shook their heads. A year? I said. Xot so long, they 
 said. Six months? I inquired. They would not, or could not 
 tell me. But never mind. 
 
 "Run down, when you have half a day to spare, for the 
 hours drag on so drearily. Oh. Cylhcrea, you can't think how 
 drearily !" 
 
 She went. Immediately en her departure, Miss Aldclyflfc 
 sent a note to the Old House, to Mansion. On the maiden's 
 return, tired and sick at heart as usual, she found Mansion 
 at the station awaiting her. He asked politely if he might 
 accompany her to Knap water. She tacitly actpuesced. During 
 tlicir walk he in(|uircd the particulars of her brother's illness, 
 and with an irresistil)le desire to pour out her trouble to some 
 one, she told him of the length of time which must elapse before 
 he could be strong again, and of the lack of comfort in a lodg- 
 ing-house. 
 
 Slanston was silent awhile. Then he said impetuously: 
 "Miss Graye, I will not mince matters — I love you — you know 
 it. Stratagem they say is fair in love, and I am compelled to 
 adopt it now. Forgive me, for 1 cannot help it. Consent to 
 be my wife at any time that may suit you. any remote day you 
 may name will satisfy me — and you shall lind him well provided 
 for." 
 
 For the first time in her life she truly dreaded the handsome 
 man at her side who pleailed thus selfishly, and shrank from 
 the hot voluptuous nature of his passion for her, which, disguise 
 it as he might under a quiet and polished exterior, at times 
 radiated forth with a scorching white heat. She perceived how 
 animal was the lov-e which bargained. 
 
 "I do not love you, Mr. Mansion," .she replied coldly. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 211 
 
 § 5. From the first to the twenty-seventh of August. 
 
 The long- sunny days of the later summer-time brought only 
 the same dreary accounts from Creston, and saw Cytherea pay- 
 ing the same sad visits. 
 
 She grew perceptibly weaker in body and in mind. Manston 
 still persisted in his suit, but with more of his former indirect- 
 ness, now that he saw how unexpectedly well she stood an open 
 attack. His was the system of Dares at the Sicilian games: 
 
 "He, like a captain who beleaguers round 
 Some strong-built castle on a rising ground, 
 Views all the approaches with observing eyes, 
 This and that other part again he tries, 
 And more on industry than force relies." 
 
 Miss Aldclyfife made it appear more clearly than ever that 
 aid to Owen from herself depended entirely upon Cytherea's 
 acceptance of her steward. Hemmed in, and distressed, Cy- 
 therea's answers to his importunities grew less uniform; they 
 were firm or wavering as Owen's malady fluctuated. Had a reg- 
 ister of her pitiful oscillations been kept, it would have rivaled in 
 pathos the diary wherein De Quincey tabulates his combat with 
 opium — perhaps as noticeable an instance as any in which a 
 thrilling dramatic power has been given to mere numerals. 
 Thus she wearily and monotonously lived through the month, 
 listening on Sundays to the well-known round of chapters 
 narrating the history of Elijah and Elisha in famine and 
 drought: on week days to buzzing flies in hot sunny rooms. 
 "So like, so very like, was day to day." Extreme lassitude 
 seemed all that the world could show her. 
 
 Her state was in this wise, when one afternoon, having been 
 with her brother, she met the surgeon, and begged him to tell 
 the actual truth concerning Owen's condition. 
 
 The reply was that he feared that the first operation had not 
 been thorough: that although the wound had healed, another 
 attempt might still be necessary, unless nature were left to 
 effect her own cure. But the time such a self-healing proceed- 
 ing would occupy might be ruinous. 
 
 "How long would it be?" she said. 
 
 "It is impossible to say, A year or two, more or less." 
 
212 DESPERATK REMEDIES. 
 
 "And suppose he submitted to another artificial extraction?"' 
 
 "Then he might be well in four or six months."' 
 
 Xow the remainder of his and her possessions, together willi 
 a sum he had borrowed, would not provide him with necessarv 
 comforts for half that time. To combat the misfortune, there 
 were two courses open: her becoming betrothed to Manston. 
 or the sending Owen to the County Hospital. 
 
 Thus terrified, driven into a corner, panting antl tlutlerin..^ 
 about for some loophole of escape, yet still shrinking from the 
 idea of being Manston"s wife, the poor little bird endeavored 
 to find out from Miss Aldclyfife whether it was likely Owen 
 would be well treated in the hosjiital. 
 
 "County Hospital!" said Miss AldclyfFe. "Why, it is only 
 another name for Slaughter House — in surgical cases at any 
 rate. Certainly if anything about your body is snapped in two 
 they do join you together in a fashion, but 'tis so askew and 
 ugly, that you may as well be ajiart again." Then she terrified 
 the inquiring and anxious maiden by relating horrid stories of 
 how the legs and arms of poor people were cut oft at a mo- 
 ment's notice, especially in cases where the restorative treat- 
 ment was likely to be long and tedious. 
 
 "You know how willing I am to help you, Cytherea," she 
 added rei)roachfully. "You know it. Why are you so obstinate 
 then? Why do you selfisldy bar the clear, honorable, and only 
 sisterly path which leads out of this difficulty? I cannot, 
 on my conscience, countenance you: no, I cannot." 
 
 Manston once more repeated his offer; and once more she 
 refused, but this time weakly, and with signs of an internal 
 struggle. Manston's eye sparkled: what Lavater calls the 
 boundary line between affection and appetite, never very dis- 
 tinct in him. was visibly obliterated. ^Ioreover he saw for the 
 hundri'dili time in his life that perseverance, if only systematic, 
 was irresistible by womankind. 
 
 § 6. The /•u'.-ntv-srv.ti/hof Air^iist. 
 
 On going to Croston three days later, she found to her sur- 
 prise that the steward had been there and introduced himself 
 and had seen her brother. A few delicacies had been broug!it 
 him also by the same hand. Owen spoke in warm terms of 
 Manston and his free and unceremonious call, as he could not 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 213 
 
 have refrained from doing of any person, of any kind, whose 
 presence had served to help away the tedious hours of a long 
 day, and who had, moreover, shown that sort of consideration 
 for him which the accompanying basket implied — antecedent 
 consideration, so telling upon all invalids — and v.-hich he so 
 seldom experienced except from the hands of his sister. 
 
 How should he perceive, amid this tithe-paying of mint, 
 and anise, and cumin, the weightier matters which were left 
 undone? 
 
 Again the steward met her at Carriford-Road station on her 
 return journey. Instead of being frigid as at the former meet- 
 ing at the same place, she was embarrassed by a strife of 
 thought, and murmured brokenly her thanks for what he had 
 done. The same request that he might see her home was made. 
 
 He had perceived his error in making his kindness to Owen 
 a conditional kindness, and had hastened to efface all recollec- 
 tion of it. "Though I let my offer on her brother's — my 
 friend's — behalf seem dependent on my lady's graciousness to 
 me," he whispered wooingly in the course of their v/alk, "I could 
 not conscientiously adhere to my statement; it was said with 
 all the impulsive selfishness of love. Whether you choose to 
 have me, or whether you don't, I love you too devotedly to be 
 
 anything but kind to your brother Miss Graye — 
 
 Cytherea, I will do anything," he continued earnestly, "to give 
 you pleasure — indeed I will." 
 
 She saw on the one hand her poor and nuich-loved Owen 
 recovering from his illness and troubles by the disinterested 
 kindness of the man beside her; on the other hand she drew 
 him dying, wholly by reason of her self-enforced poverty. To 
 marry this man was obviously the course of common sense, to 
 refuse him was impolitic temerity. There was reason in this. 
 But there was more behind than a hundred reasons — a woman's 
 gratitude and her impulse to be kind. 
 
 The wavering of her mind was visible in her tell-tale face. 
 He noticed it, and caught at the opportunity. 
 
 They were standing by the ruinous foundations of an old 
 mill in the midst of a meadow. Between gray and half-over- 
 grown stonework — the only signs of masonry remaining — the 
 water gurgled down from the old mill-pond to a lower level, 
 under the cloak of rank broad leaves — the sensuous natures of 
 the vegetable world. On the right hand the sun, resting on the 
 
214 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 iK.ri/.on-liuc. streamed across the ground from below copper- 
 c<tl(jred and lilac cluids, stretched out in flats beneath a sky of 
 pale soft green. All dark objects on the earth that lay toward 
 the sun were overspread by a purple haze, against which a 
 swarm of wailing gnats shone forth luminously, rising upward 
 and floating away like sparks of fire. 
 
 The stillness oppressed and reduced her to mere pass^vit^^ 
 The oidy wish the humidity of the place left in her was to stand 
 motionless. The helpless flatness of the landscape gave her. as 
 it gives all such temperaments, a sense of bare equality with, 
 and no suj)eriority to, a single entity untler the sky. 
 
 He came so close that their clothes touched. "Will you try 
 to love me? Do try to love me," he said in a whisper, taking 
 her hand. He had never taken it before. She could feel his 
 hand trembling exceedingly as it held hers in its clasp. 
 
 Considering his kindness to her brother, his love for herself, 
 and Edward's fickleness, ought she to forbid him to do this? 
 How truly pitiful it was to feel his hand tremble so — all for her! 
 Should she withdraw her hand? She would think whether she 
 would. Thinking and hesitating, she looked as far as the 
 autumnal haze on the marshy ground would allow her to see 
 distinctly. There was the fragment of a hedge — all that re- 
 mained of a wet old garden — standing in the middle of the 
 mead, without a definite beginning or ending, purposeless and 
 valueless. It was overgmwn and chicked with mandrakes, and 
 she could almost fancy she heard their shrieks. . . . Should 
 she withdraw her hand? No. she could not withdraw it now; 
 it was too late, the act would not imply refusal. She felt as 
 o:ic in a boat without oars, drifting with closed eyes down a 
 river — she knew not whither. 
 
 He gave her hand a gentle pressure, and relinquished it. 
 
 Then it seemed as if he were coming to the point again. No, 
 he was not going to urge his suit that evening. Another 
 resjiite. 
 
 § 7. The early part of September. 
 
 Saturday came, and she went on some trivial errand to the 
 village postoffice. It was a little gray cottage with a luxuriant 
 jrismine encircling the doorway, and before going in Cvtherea 
 paused to admire this pleasing feature of the exterior. Hearing 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 215 
 
 a step on the gravel behind the corner of the house, she resigned 
 the jasmine and entered. Nobody was in the room. She could 
 hear Airs. Leat, the widow who acted as postmistress, walking 
 about over her head. Cytherea was going to the foot of the 
 stairs to call j\Irs. Leat, but before she had accomplished her 
 object another form stood at the half-open door. Manston 
 came in. 
 
 "Both on the same errand," he said gracefully. 
 
 ''I will call her," said Cytherea, moving in haste to the foot 
 of the stairs. 
 
 "One moment." He glided to her side. "Don't call her for 
 a moment," he repeated. 
 
 "But she had said, "Mrs. Leat!" 
 
 He seized Cytherea's hand, kissed it tenderly, and carefully 
 replaced it by her side. 
 
 She had that morning determined to check his further ad- 
 vances until she had thoroughly considered her position. The 
 remonstrance was now on her tongue, but as accident would 
 have it, before the word could be spoken, Mrs. Leat was step- 
 ping from the last stair to the f^oor, and no remonstrance 
 came. 
 
 With the subtlety which characterized him in all his dealings 
 with her, he quickly concluded his own errand, bade her a 
 good-by, in the tones of which love was so garnished with pure 
 politeness that it only showed its presence to herself, and left 
 the house — putting it out of her power to refuse him her com- 
 panionship homeward, or to object to his late action of kissing 
 her hand. 
 
 The Friday of next week brought another letter from her 
 l)rother. In this he informed her that, in absolute grief lest he 
 should distress her unnecessarily, he had some time earlier bor- 
 rowed a few pounds. A week ago, he said, his creditor became 
 importunate, but that on the day on which he wrote the cred- 
 itor had told him there was no hurry for a settlement, that "his 
 sister's suitor had guaranteed the sum." "Is he Mr. Manston? 
 tell me, Cytherea," said Owen. 
 
 He also mentioned that a wheeled chair had been anony- 
 mously hired for his especial use, though as yet he was hardly 
 far enough advanced toward convalescence to avail himself 
 of the luxury. "Is 'this Mr. Mansion's doing?" he inquired. 
 
 She could dally with her perplexity, evade it, trust to tinie 
 
216 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 for gfijidancc no longer. The matter had come to a crisis: she 
 must once and for all ciioose between the dictates of her under- 
 stancHng and those of her litart. She longed, till her soul 
 seemed nigh to bursting, for her lost mother's return to earth, 
 but for one minute, that she might have tender counsel to guide 
 her through this, her great difficulty. 
 
 As for her heart, she half-fancied that it was not Kdward's 
 to quite the extent that it once had been ; she thought him cruel 
 in conducting himself toward her as he did at Creston, cruel 
 afterward in making so lightly of her. She knew he had stifled 
 his love for her — was utterly lost to her. P.ut for all that she 
 could not help indulging in a woman's pleasure of recreating 
 defunct agonies, and lacerating herself with them now and 
 then. 
 
 "If I were rich," she thought. "I would give way to the lux- 
 ury of being morbidly faithful to him forever without his 
 knowledge." 
 
 P.ut she considered: in the first place she was a homeless 
 dependent ; and what did practical wisdom tell her to do under 
 such desperate circumstances? 
 
 To provide herself with some place of refuge from poverty, 
 and with means to aid her brother Owen. This was to be Mr. 
 Mansion's wife. 
 
 She did not love him. 
 
 P>ut what was love without a home? Misery. What was a 
 home without love? Alas, not much; but still a kind of home. 
 
 "Yes," she thought, "I am urged by my common sense to 
 marry Mr. Mansion." 
 
 Did anytliing nobler in her say so too? 
 
 With the death (to her) of Edward her heart's occupation 
 was gone. Was it necessary or even right for her to tend it 
 and take care of it as she used to in the old time, when it was 
 still a capable minister? 
 
 By a slight sacrifice here she could give happiness to at least 
 two hearts whose emotional activities were still unwounded. 
 She would do good to two men whose lives were far more im- 
 portant than hers. 
 
 "Yes," she said again, "even Christianity urges me to marry 
 Mr. Manston." 
 
 Directly Cythcrea had persuaded herself that a kind of 
 heroic self-abnegation had to do with the matter, she becanie 
 
to 
 
 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 217 
 
 much more content in the consideration of it. A willful indif- 
 ference to the future was what really prevailed in her, ill and 
 worn out, as she was, by the perpetual harassments of her 
 sad fortune, and she regarded this indifference, as gushing 
 natures will under such circumstances, as genuine resigna- 
 tion and devotedness. 
 
 Alanston met her again the following day: indeed there was 
 no escaping him now. At the end of a short conversation 
 between them, which took place in the hollow of the park by 
 the waterfall, obscured on the side by the low outer hanging 
 branches of the limes, she tacitly assented to his assumption 
 of a privilege greater than any that had preceded it. He 
 stooped and kissed her brow. 
 
 Before going to bed she wrote to Owen explaining the whole 
 matter. It was too late in the evening for the postman's visit, 
 and she placed the letter on the mantel-piece to send it the 
 next day. 
 
 The morning (Sunday) brought a hurried postscript 
 Owen's letter of the day before. 
 
 "September 9th, 1865. 
 "Dear Cytherea: 
 
 "I have received a frank and friendly letter from 
 Mr. Manston explaining the position in which he stands now, 
 and also that in which he hopes to stand toward you. 
 Can't you love him? Why not? Try, for he is a good, and 
 not only that but a talented man. Think of the weary and 
 laborious future that awaits you if you continue for life in your 
 present position, and do you see any way of escape from it 
 except by marriage? I don't. Don't go against your heart, 
 Cytherea, but be wise. 
 
 "Ever afifectionately yours, 
 
 "Owen." 
 
 She thought that probably he had replied to Mr. Manston 
 in the same favoring mood. She had a conviction that that 
 day would settle her doom. Yet 
 
 "So true a fool is love," 
 
 that even now she nourished a half hope that something would 
 happen at the last moment to thwart her deliberately formed 
 
218 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 intentions, and favor the old emotion she was using all her 
 strength to thrust down. 
 
 § 8. Thf trnth of Seplntthn. 
 
 The Sunday was the thirteenth after Trinity, and the after- 
 n(M)n service at Carriford was nearly over. The people were 
 singing the Evening Hymn. 
 
 Manston was at church as usual in his accustometl place, 
 two scats forward from the large square pew occupied by Miss 
 AldclyfFe and Cytherea. 
 
 The ordinary sadness of an autumnal evening service 
 seemed, in Cytherea's eyes, to be doubled on this particular 
 occasion. She looked at all the people as they stood and sang, 
 waving backward and forward like a forest of pines swayed 
 by a gentle l)reeze; then at the village children singing too, 
 their heads inclined to one side, their eyes listlessly tracing 
 some crack in the old walls, or following the movement of a 
 distant bough or binl with features petrified almost to painful- 
 ncss. Then she looked at Manston; he was already regarding 
 her with some purpose in his glance. 
 
 "It is coming tliis evening." she said in her mind. A minute 
 later, at the end of the hymn, when the congregation began to 
 move out, Manston came down the aisle. lie was opposite 
 the end of her seat as she stepped from it, the remaimler of 
 tiieir progress to the door being in contact with each other. 
 Miss AldclyfFe had lingered behind. 
 
 "Don't let's hurry," he said, when Cytherea was about to 
 enter the private path to the House as usual. "Would you 
 mind turning down this way for a minute till Miss AldclyfTe 
 has passed?" 
 
 She could not very well refuse now. They turned into a 
 secluded path on their left, leading round through a thicket of 
 laurels to the outer gate of the churchyard, walking very 
 slowly. By the time the farther gate was reached, the church 
 was closed. They met the sexton with the keys in his hand. 
 
 "We are going inside for a luinute." said Manston to him, 
 taking the keys unceremoniously. "I will bring them to you 
 when we return." 
 
 The sexton nodded his assent, and Cytherea and Manston 
 walked into the porch and up the nave. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 219 
 
 They did not speak a word during their progress, or in any- 
 way interfere with the stillness and silence that prevailed 
 everywhere around them. Everything in the place was the em- 
 bodiment of decay: the fading red glare from the setting sun, 
 which came in at the west window, emphasizing the end of the 
 day and all its cheerful doings, the mildewed walls, the uneven 
 paving-stones, the wormy poppy-heads, the sense of recent 
 occupation, and the dank air of death which had gathered with 
 the evening, would have made grave a lighter mood than 
 Cytherea's was then. 
 
 "What sensations does the place impress you with?" she said 
 at last, very sadly. 
 
 "I feel imperatively called upon to be honest, from despair 
 of achieving anything by stratagem in a world where the 
 materials are such as these." He too spoke in a depressed 
 voice, purposely or otherwise. 
 
 "I feel as if I were almost ashamed to be seen walking such 
 a world," she murmured; "that's the effect it has upon me: 
 but it does not induce me to be honest particularly." 
 
 He took her hand in both his, and looked down upon the lids 
 of her eyes. 
 
 "I pity you sometimes," he said, more emphatically. 
 
 "I am pitiable, perhaps: so are many people. Why do you 
 pity me?" 
 
 "I think that you make yourself needlessly sad." 
 
 "Not needlessly." 
 
 "Yes, needlessly. Why should you be separated from your 
 brother so nmch, when you might have him to stay with you 
 till he is well?" 
 
 "That can't be," she said, turning away. 
 
 He went on, "I think the real and only good thing that can 
 be done for him is to get him away from Creston awhile ; and 
 T have been wondering whether it could not be managed for 
 him to come to my house to live for a few weeks. Only a 
 quarter of a mile from you. How pleasant it would be !" 
 
 "It would." 
 
 He moved himself round immediately to the front of her, 
 and held her hand more firmly, as he continued, "Cytherea, 
 why do you say Tt would,' so entirely in the tone of abstract 
 supposition? I want him there; I want him to be my brother 
 too. Then make him so and be my wife! I cannot live with- 
 
220 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 out vou — O Cvlhcrca, inv darling', inv love, come and be mv 
 wife!" 
 
 His face bent closer and closer to her, and the last words 
 sank to a whisper as weak as the emotion inspiring it was 
 stronq^. 
 
 She said firmly and distinctly, "Yes. I will." 
 
 "Xext month?" he said on the instant, before taking breath. 
 
 'Xo; not next month." 
 
 "The next?" 
 
 ".\'o." 
 
 "December? Ciiristmas Day, say?" 
 
 "I don't mind." 
 
 "Oh you darling!" He was about to imprint a kiss upon her 
 pale cold mouth, but she hastily covered it with her hand. 
 
 "Don't kiss me — at least where we are now!" she whispered 
 iinj)loringlv. 
 
 •Why?'' 
 
 "We are too near God." 
 
 He gave a sudden start, and his face flushed. She had 
 spoken so emphatically that the words, "Near God," echoed 
 back again through the hollow building from the far end of the 
 chancel. 
 
 "What a thing to say!" he exclaimed; "surely a pure kiss is 
 not inappropriate to the place!" 
 
 "Xo," she replied, with a swelling heart; "I don't know why 
 1 burst out so — I can't tell what has come over me! Will you 
 forgive me?" 
 
 "How shall I say 'Yes' without judging you? How shall I 
 say 'Xo' without losing the pleasure of saying 'Yes?'" He 
 was himself again. 
 
 "f don't know," she absently nnirmurcd. 
 
 "I'll say Yes." he answered, daintily. "It is sweeter to fancy 
 we are forgiven, than to think wc have not sinned; and you 
 shall have the sweetness witb.out the need." 
 
 She did not reply, and they moved away. The church was 
 nearly dark now, and melancholy in the extreme. She stood 
 beside him while he locked the door, then took the arm he gave 
 her, and wended her way out of the churchyard with him. 
 Then they walked to the House together, but the great mat»er 
 having been set at rest, she persisted in talking only on indiffer- 
 ent subjects. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 221 
 
 "Christmas Day, then," he said, as they were parting at the 
 shrubbery. 
 
 "I meant Old Christmas Day," she said, evasively. 
 
 ''H'm! people do not usually attach that meaning to the 
 words?" 
 
 "No, but I should like it best if it could not be till then." 
 It seemed to be still her instinct to delay the marriage to the 
 utmost. 
 
 "\'ery well, love," he said gently. " 'Tis a fortnight longer 
 still, but never mind. Old Christmas Day." 
 
 § g. The eleventh of September. 
 
 "There. It will be on a Friday!" 
 
 She sat upon a litde footstool gazing intently into the fire. 
 It was the afternoon of the day following that of the steward's 
 successful solicitation of her hand. 
 
 "I wonder if it would be proper in me to run across the park 
 and tell him it is a Friday," she said to herself, rising to her 
 feet, looking at her hat lying near, and then out of the window 
 toward the Old House. Proper or not, she felt that she must at 
 all hazards remove the disagreeable, though, as she herself 
 owned, unfounded impression the coincidence had occasioned. 
 She left the house directly, and went to search for him 
 
 Manston was in the timber-yard, looking at the sawyers as 
 they worked. Cytherea came up to him hesitatingly. Till 
 within a distance of a few yards she had hurried forward with 
 alacrity; now that the practical expression of his face became 
 visible she wished almost she had never sought him on such an 
 errand: in his business-mood he was perhaps very stern. 
 
 "It will be on a Friday," she said confusedly, and without 
 any preface. 
 
 "Come this way!" said Manston, in a tone he used for work- 
 men, not being able to alter at an instant's notice. He gave 
 her his arm and led her back into the avenue, by which time he 
 was lover again. "On a Friday, will it, dearest? You do not 
 mind Fridays surely? That's nonsense." 
 
 "Not seriously mind them, exactly — but if it could be any 
 other dav?" 
 
 "Well let us say Old Christmas Eve then. Shall it be Old 
 Christmas Eve?" 
 
 15 
 
222 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Yes, Old Christmas Eve." 
 
 "Your word is suleiim and irrevocable now?" 
 
 "Certainly; I have solemnly pledged my word; I should not 
 have i)romised to marry you if I had not meant it. Don't think 
 I should," She spoke the words with a dij^nified impressive- 
 ness. 
 
 "You must not be vexed at my remark, dearest. Can you 
 think the worse of an ardent man, Cylherea, for showing some 
 anxiety in love?" 
 
 "No; no." She could not say more. Slie was always ill at 
 ease when he spoke of himself as a piece of human nature in 
 that analytical way, and wanted to be out of his presence. The 
 time of day and proximity of the House afTorded her a means 
 of escape. "I must be with Miss AldclyfTe ndw; will you 
 excuse my hasty coming and going?" she said prettily. Before 
 he had rei)lied she had parted from him. 
 
 "Cytherea, was it Mr. Manston I saw you scudding away 
 from in the avenue just now?" said Miss AldclyfTe, when 
 Cvtherea joined her. 
 '"Yes."^ 
 
 "'Yes.' Come, why don't you say more than that? I hate 
 those taciturn 'Yeses' of yours. I tell you everything, and yet 
 you are as close as wax with me." 
 
 "I parted from him because I wanted to come in." 
 
 "What a novel and important announcement! Well, is the 
 dav fixed?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Miss Aldclyflfe's face kindled into intense interest at once. 
 "Is it indeed? When is it to be?" 
 
 "On Old Christmas Eve." 
 
 "Old Christmas Eve." Miss AldclyflFe drew Cytherea round 
 to her irout, and took a hand in each of her own. "And then 
 you will be a bride!" she said slowly, looking with critical 
 thoughtfidness upon the maiden's delicately rounded cheeks. 
 
 The normal area of the color upon each of them decreased 
 perceptiblv after that slow and emphatic utterance bv the elder 
 lady. 
 
 Miss AldclyfTe continued impressively. "You did not say 'Old 
 Christmas Eve' as a fiancee should have said the words: and 
 you don't receive my remark with the warm excitement that 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 223 
 
 foreshadows a bright future How many weeks are 
 
 there to the time?" 
 
 "I have not reckoned them." 
 
 ''Not? Fancy a girl not counting the weeks! I find I must 
 take the lead m this matter — you are so childish, or frightened, 
 or stupid, or something, about it. Bring me my diary, and we 
 will count them at once." 
 
 Cytherea silently fetched the book. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe opened the diary at the page containing the 
 almanac, and counted sixteen weeks, which brought her to the 
 thirty-first of December — a Sunday. Cytherea stood by, look- 
 ing on as if she had no appetite for the scene. 
 
 "Sixteen to the thirty-first. Then let me see: Monday will 
 be the first of January, Tuesday the second, Wednesday the 
 third, Thursday fourth, Friday fifth — you have chosen a Friday 
 I do declare!" 
 
 "A Thursday, surely?" said Cytherea. 
 
 "No: Old Christmas Day comes on a Saturday." 
 
 The perturbed litde brain had reckoned wrong. "Well, it 
 must be a Friday," she muttered in a reverie. 
 
 "No; have it altered, of course," said Miss Aldclyfife cheer- 
 fully. There's nothing bad in Friday, but such a creature as 
 you will be thinking about its being unlucky — in fact, I 
 wouldn't choose a Friday myself to be married on, since all 
 other days are equally available." 
 
 "I shall not have it altered," said Cytherea firmly; "it has been 
 altered once, already ; I shall let it be." 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY. 
 §1. The fifth of January. Before dawn. 
 
 \Vc pass over the intervening weeks. Tlie time of the story 
 is thus advanced exactly three months and twenty-four (hiys. 
 
 On the michiight precechng the morning which would make 
 her the wife (jf a man whose presence fascinated her into invol- 
 untariness of bearing, and whoin in absence slie almost 
 dreaded. Cytherea laid in her little bed, vainly endeavoring to 
 sleep. 
 
 She had been looking back amid the years of her short 
 though varied past, and thinking of the threshold upon which 
 she stood. Days and months had dimmed the form of Edward 
 Springrove like the gauzes of a vanishing stage-scene, but his 
 dying voice could still l)e heard faintly behind. That a soft 
 small chord in her still vil)rated true to his memory, she would 
 not admit: that she did not approRch Manston with feelings 
 which could by any stretch of words be calleil hymeneal, she 
 calmly owned. 
 
 "W'hy do I marry him?" she said to herself. "Because 
 Owen, dear Owen, my brother, wishes me to marry him. P>e- 
 cause Mr, Manston is and has been uniformly kind to Owen 
 and to me. 'Act in obedience to the dictates of common 
 sense,' Owen said, 'and dreatl tlie sharp sting of poverty. How 
 many thousands of women like you marry every year for the 
 same reason, to secure a hcMue and mere ordinary material 
 comforts, which after all go far to make life endurable, even if 
 not supremely happy.' 
 
 " 'Tis right, I suppose, for him to say that. Oh, if people 
 only knew what a timidity and melancholy upon the subject 
 of her future grows up in the heart of a friendless woman who 
 is blown about like a reed shaken with the wind, as I 
 iin, thev wt)uld not call this resignation of one's self bv the 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 225 
 
 name of scheming to get a husband. Scheme to marry? I'd 
 rather scheme to die! I know I am not pleasing my heart; I. 
 know that if I only were concerned, I should like risking a 
 single future. But why should I please my useless self over- 
 much, when by doing otherwise I please those who are more 
 valuable than I?" 
 
 In die midst of desultory reflections like these, which alter- 
 nated with surmises as to the inexplicable connection that 
 appeared to exist between her intended husband and Miss 
 Aldclyffe, she heard dull noises outside the walls of the house, 
 which she could not quite fancy to be caused by the wind. She 
 seemed doomed to such disturbances at critical periods of her 
 existence. "It is strange," she pondered, "that this my last 
 night in Knapwater House should be disturbed precisely as 
 my first was, no occurrence of the kind having intervened." 
 
 As the minutes glided by the noise increased, sounding as if 
 some one were beating the wall below her window with a 
 bunch of switches. She would gladly have left her room and 
 gone to stay with one of the maids, but they were without 
 doubt all asleep. 
 
 The only person in the house likely to be awake, or who 
 would have brains enough to comprehend her nervousness, 
 was Miss Aldclyffe, but Cytherea never cared to go to Miss 
 Aldclyffe's room, though she was always welcome there, and 
 was often almost compelled to go against her will. 
 
 The oft-repeated noise of switches grew heavier upon the 
 wall, and was now intermingled with creaks, and a rattling 
 like the rattling of dice. The wind blew stronger; there came 
 first a snapping, then a crash, and some portion of the mystery 
 was revealed. It was the breaking off and fall of a branch 
 from one of the large trees outside. The smacking against 
 the wall, and the intermediate rattling, ceased from that time. 
 
 Well, it was the tree which had caused the noises. The 
 unexplained matter was that neither of the trees ever touched 
 the walls of the house during the highest wind, and that trees 
 could not rattle like a man playing castanet or shaking dice. 
 
 She thought, "Is it the intention of Fate that something 
 connected with these noises shall influence my future as in the 
 last case of the kind?" 
 
 During the dilemma she fell into a troubled sleep, and 
 dreamed that she was being whipped with dry bones suspended 
 
226 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 on Strings, which rattled at every blow like those of a male- 
 factor on a gibbet; that she shifted and shrank and avoided 
 every blow, and they fell then upon the wall to which she was 
 tied. She could not see the face of the executioner for his 
 mask, but his form was like that of Manston's. 
 
 "Thank heaven!" she said, wlien she aw<jke and saw a faint 
 light struggling through her blind. "Xow what were those 
 noises?" To settle that question seemed more to her tlian the 
 event of the day. 
 
 She pulled the blind aside and looked out. All was plain. 
 The evening previous had closed in with a gray drizzle, 
 borne upon a piercing air from the north, and now its effects 
 were visil)le. The hoary drizzle still continued; but the trees 
 and shrubs were laden with icicles to an extent such as she had 
 never before witnessed. A shoot of the diameter of a pin's 
 head was iced as thick as her finger: all the boughs in the 
 ])ark were bent almost to the earth with the immense weight 
 of the glistening incumbrance: the walks were like a looking- 
 glass. Many boughs had snapped beneath their burden, and 
 lay in heaps upon the icy grass. Opposite her eye, on the near- 
 est tree, was a fresh yellow scar, showing where the branch tliat 
 had terrified her had been splintered from the tnmk. 
 
 'T never could have b.'lieved it possible," she thought, 
 surveying the bowed-down branches, "that trees would bend so 
 far out of their true positions without breaking." By watching 
 a twig she could see a drop collect upon it from the hoary fog, 
 sink to the lowest point, and there become coagulated as the 
 others had done. 
 
 "Or that I could so exactly have imitated them," she con- 
 tinued. "On this morning I am to be married — unless this is 
 a scheme of the great Mother to hinder a union of which she 
 does not approve. Is it possible for my wedding to take place 
 in the face of such weather as this?" 
 § 2. Morning. 
 
 Her brother Owen was staying with Manston at the Old 
 House. Contrary to the opini<m of the doctors, the wound had 
 healed after the first surgical operation, and his leg was gradu- 
 ally acquiring strength, though he could only as yet get about 
 on crutches, or ride, or be dragged in a chair. 
 
 Miss Aldclyfife had arranged that Cytherea should be mar- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES, 227 
 
 ried from Knapwater House, and not from her brother's lodg- 
 ings at Creston, which was Cytherea's first idea. Owen, too, 
 seemed to prefer the plan. The capricious old maid had lat- 
 terly taken to the contemplation of the wedding with even 
 greater warmth than had at first inspired her, and appeared 
 determined to do everything in her power, consistent with her 
 dignity, to render the adjuncts of the ceremony pleasing and 
 complete. 
 
 But the weather seemed in flat contradiction of the whole 
 proceeding. At eight o'clock the coachman crept up to the house 
 almost upon his hands and knees, entered the kitchen, and 
 stood with his back to the fire, panting from his exertions in 
 pedestrianism. 
 
 The kitchen was by far the pleasantest apartment in 
 Knapwater House on such a morning as this. The vast fire 
 was the center of the whole system, like a sun, and threw 
 its warm rays upon the figures of the domestics, wheeling about 
 it in true planetary style. A nervously feeble imitation of its 
 flicker was continually attempted by a family of polished 
 metallic utensils standing in rows and groups against the walls 
 opposite, the whole collection of shines nearly annihilating the 
 weak daylight from outside. A step farther in, and the nostrils 
 were greeted by the scent of sweet herbs just gathered, and the 
 eye by the plump form of the cook, wholesome, white-aproned, 
 and floury — looking as edible as the food she manipulated — 
 her movements being supported and assisted by her satellites, 
 the kitchen and scullery maids. Minute recurrent sounds pre- 
 vailed — the click of the smokejack, the flap of the flames, and 
 the light touches of the women's slippers upon the stone floor. 
 
 The coachman hemmed, spread his feet more firmly upon 
 the hearthstone, and looked hard at a small plate in the extreme 
 corner of the dresser. 
 
 "No wedden this mornen — that's my opinion. In fact, there 
 can't be," he said, abruptly, as if the words were the mere torso 
 of a many-membered thought that had existed complete in his 
 head. 
 
 The kitchen-maid was toasting a slice of bread at the end of a 
 very long toasting-fork which she held at arm's length toward 
 the unapproachable fire, like the flanconnade in fencing. 
 
 "Bad out of doors, isn't it?" she said, with a look of com- 
 miseration for things in general. 
 
228 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Bad? Not a liven soul, p^cntlc or simple, can stand on level 
 {^Tcnnid. As to gctten up liii! to the church, 'tis perfect lunacy. 
 And 1 speak of foot-|)asscngers. As to horses and carriage, 
 'tis niurdec to think uf 'cm. 1 am going to send straight as a 
 line into tlic breakfast-room, and say 'tis a closer .... 
 IIullo, here's Clerk Crickett and John Day a-comen! Now just 
 look at 'em and picture a wedden if you can." 
 
 All eyes were turned to the window, from which the clerk 
 and gardener were seen crossing the court, bowed and stoop- 
 ing like Bel and Xebo. 
 
 "You'll have to go if it breaks all the horses' legs in the 
 comity," said the cook, turning from the spectacle, knocking 
 open the oven door with the tongs, glancing critically in, and 
 slamming it together with a clang. 
 
 "Oh. oh; why shall I?" asked the coachman, including in 
 his auditory by a glance the clerk and gardener, who had just 
 entered. 
 
 "Because Mr. Manston is in the business. Did you ever 
 know him to give up for weather of any kind, or for any other 
 mortal thing in heaven or earth?" 
 
 " — Morncn so's — such as it is!" interrupted Mr. Crickett 
 cheerily, coming forward to the blaze and warming one hand 
 without looking at the fire. "Mr. Manston gie up for anything 
 in heaven or earth, did you say? You might ha' cut it short 
 by sayen 'to Miss AldclyfFe,' and leaven out heaven and earth 
 as trifles. But it might be put off; putten off a thing isn't 
 getten rid of a thing, if that thing is a woman ; oh, no. no." 
 
 The coachman anfl gardener now naturally subsided into 
 secondaries. The cook went on rather sharply, as she dribbled 
 milk into the exact center of a little crater of flour in a platter. 
 
 "It might be in this case: .she's so indifferent." 
 
 "Dang my old sides! and so it might be. I have a bit of 
 news — 1 thought there was something upon my tongue: but 
 'lis a secret, not a word, mind, not a word. Why. Miss Hinton 
 took a holiday yesterday." 
 
 "Yes?" inquired the cook, looking up with perplexed 
 curiosity. 
 
 "D' ye think that's all?" 
 
 "Don't be so three-cunning — if it is all. deliver you from the 
 evil of raising a woman's expectations wrongfully; I'll skimmer 
 your pate as sure as you cry .-Kmen!" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 229 
 
 "Well, it isn't all. When I got home last night my wife said, 
 'Miss Hinton took a holiday this mornen,' says she (my wife, 
 that is) ; 'walked over to Stintham Lane, met the comen man, 
 and got married!' says she. 
 
 "Got married! what, Lord-a-mercy, did Springrove come?" 
 
 "Springrove, no — no — Springrove's nothen to do wi' it — 
 'twas Farmer Bollens. They've been playing bu-pecp for these 
 two or three months seemingly. While Master Teddy Spring- 
 rove has been daddlen and hawken, and spettin about having 
 her, she's quietly left him all forsook. Serve him right. I don't 
 blame the little woman a bit." 
 
 "Farmer Bollens is old enough to be her father!" 
 
 "Ay, quite; and rich enough to be ten fathers. They say 
 he's so rich that he has business in every bank, and measures 
 his money in half-pint cups." 
 
 "Lord, I wish it was me, don't I wish 'twas me!" said the 
 scullery-maid. 
 
 "Yes, 'twas as neat a bit of stitchen as ever I heard of," con- 
 tinued the clerk, with a fixed eye, as if he were watching the 
 process from a distance. "Not a soul knew anything about it, 
 and my wife is the only one in our parish who knows it yet. 
 Miss Hinton came back from the wedden, went to Mr. Man- 
 ston, puffed herself out large and said she was Mrs. Bollens, 
 but that if he wished she had no objection to keep on the house 
 till the regular time of giving notice had expired, or till he 
 could get another tenant." 
 
 "Just like her independence," said the cook. 
 
 "Well, independent or no, she's Mrs. Bollens now. Ah, I 
 shall never forget one* when I went by Farmer Bollens' gar- 
 den — years ago now — years, when he was taken up ash-leaf 
 taties. A merry feller I was at that time, a very merry feller — 
 f 3r 'twas before I took orders, and it didn't prick my conscience 
 as 'twould now. 'Farmer,' says I, 'little taties seem to turn out 
 small this year, don't 'em?' 'Oh, no, Crickett,' says he, 'some 
 be fair-sized.' He's a dull man — Farmer Bollens is — he always 
 was. However, that's neither here nor there, he's a-married to 
 a sharp woman, and if I don't make a mistake, she'll bring him 
 a pretty good family, gie her time." 
 
 "Well, it don't matter; there's a Providence in it," said the 
 scullery-maid. "God A'mighty always sends bread as well as 
 children." 
 
230 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Rut 'tis the bread to one house and the children to another. 
 I low ever, I think I can see my lady Hinton's reason for chooscn 
 yesterday to sickncss-or-hcalth-it. Your young- miss, and tliat 
 one, had crossed one another's path in regard to young Master 
 Springrove: and I expect that when Addy Hinton found Miss 
 (Iraye wasn't caren to have en. she thought she'd be before- 
 hand with her old enemy in marrying somebody else, too. 
 That's maids' logic all over, and maids' malice, too." 
 
 Women who are bad enough to divide against themselves 
 under a man's partiality are good enough to instantly unite in 
 a common cause against his attack. 
 
 '"I'll just tell you one thing, then," said the cook, shaking 
 out her words to the time of a whisk she was beating eggs with. 
 "Whatever maids' logic is. and maids' malice, too, if C\-therea 
 Oaye even now knows that young Springrovc is free again, 
 she'll fling over the steward as soon as look at him." 
 
 "Xo, no; not now," the coachman broke in like a modera- 
 tor. "There's honor in that maid, if ever there was in one. No 
 Miss Hinton's tricks in her. She'll stick to Mansion." 
 
 "Pish!" 
 
 "Don't let a word be said till the weddcn is over, for 
 heaven's sake," the clerk continued. "Miss AldclyfTe would 
 fairly hang and quarter me if my news broke ofT that there 
 wedden at a last minute like this." 
 
 "Then you had better get your wife to bolt you in the closet 
 for an hour or two, for you'll chatter it yourself to the whole 
 boiling parish if she don't! 'Tis a poor womanly feller." 
 
 ""\'ou shouldn't ha' begun it. clerk. I knew how 'twould be." 
 .said the gardener soothingly, in a whisper to the clerk's man- 
 gled remains. 
 
 The clerk turned and smiled at the fire, and warmed his other 
 hand. 
 
 § 3. Noon 
 
 The weather gave way. In half an hour there began a rapid 
 thaw. Hy ten o'cl ")ck the roads, though still dangerous, were 
 practicable to the extent of the half-mile required by the people 
 of Knapwatcr Park. One mass of heavy leaden cloud spread 
 over the whole sky; the air began to feel damp and mild out of 
 doors, though still cold and frosty within. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 231 
 
 • They reached the church and passed up the nave, the deep- 
 colored glass of the narrow windows rendering the gloom of 
 the morning almost night itself inside the building. Then the 
 ceremony began. The only warmth or spirit imported into it 
 came from the bridegroom, who retained a vigorous — even 
 Spenserian — bridal-mood throughout the morning. 
 
 Cytherea was as firm as he at this critical moment, but as 
 cold as the air surrounding her. The fevv persons forming the 
 wedding-party were constrained in movement and tone, and 
 from the nave of the church came occasional coughs, emitted 
 by those who, in spite of the weather, had assembled to see the 
 termination of Cytherea's existence as a single woman. Many 
 poor people loved her. They pitied her success, why, they 
 could not tell, except that it was because she seemed to stand 
 more like a statue than Cytherea Graye. 
 
 Yet she was prettily and carefully dressed, a strange contra- 
 diction in a man's idea of things; a saddening, perplexing 
 contradiction. Are there any points in which a difference of 
 sex amounts to a difference of nature? Then this is surely one. 
 Not so much, as it is commonly put, in regard to the amount 
 of consideration given, but in the conception of the thing con- 
 sidered. A man emasculated by coxcombry may spend more 
 time upon the arrangement of his clothes than any woman, but 
 even then there is no fetichism in his idea of them — they are 
 still only a covering he uses for a time. But here was Cytherea, 
 in the bottom of her heart almost indifferent to life, yet possess- 
 ing an instinct with which her heart had nothing to do, the in- 
 stinct to be particularly regardful of those sorry trifles, her robe, 
 her flowers, her veil, and her gloves. 
 
 The irrevocable words were soon spoken — the indelible 
 writing soon written — and they came out of the vestry. Candles 
 had been necessary here to enable them to sign their names, 
 and on their return to the church the light from the candle 
 streamed from the small open door and across the chancel to a 
 black chestnut screen on the south side, dividing it from a small 
 chapel, or chantry, erected for the soul's peace of some Aldclyffe 
 of the past. Through the open-work of this screen could now be 
 seen illuminated, inside the chantry, the reclining figures of 
 cross-legged knights, damp and green with age, and above 
 them a huge classic monument, also inscribed to the Aldclyffe 
 family, heavily sculptured in cadaverous marble. 
 
2.?2 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Leaning licrc — almost hanging to the monument — was Ed- 
 ward Springrovc. or his spirit. 
 
 Tlie weak dayhght would never have revealed him, shaded 
 as he was by the screen; but the une.xpccted rays of candle- 
 light in the front showed him forth in startling relief to any and 
 all of those whose eyes wandered in that direction. The sight 
 was a sad one — sad beyond all description. His eyes were wil<l. 
 tlieir orbits leaden. His face was of a sickly paleness, his hair 
 dry and disordered, his lips parted as if he could get no breath. 
 Ilis figure was specter-thin. His actions seemed beyond his 
 own control. 
 
 Manston did not see him; Cythcrea did. The healing eflfect 
 uj)on her heart of a year's silence — a year and a half's separa- 
 tion — was inidone in an instant. One of those strange revivals 
 of passion by mere sight — commoner in women than in men, 
 and in oppressed women commonest of all — had taken place in 
 her — so transcendently, that even to herself it seemed more like 
 a new creation than a revival. 
 
 Marrying for a home — what a mockery it was! 
 
 It may be said that the means most potent for rekindling 
 old love in a maiden's heart are. to see her lover in laughter 
 and good spirits in her despite when the breach has been owing 
 to a slight from herself; when owing to a slight from him, to 
 see him suffering for his own fault. If he is happy in a clear 
 conscience, she blames him; if he is miserable because deeply 
 to blame, she blames herself. The latter was Cytherea's case 
 now. 
 
 First, an agony of face told of the suppressed misery within 
 her, which presently could be suppressed no longer. When they 
 were coming out of the porch there broke from her in a low 
 plaintive scream the words, "He's dymg — dying! Oh, God, 
 save us!" She began to sink down, and would have fallen had 
 not Manston caught her. The chief bridesmaid applied her 
 vinaigrette. 
 
 "What did she say?" inquired Manston. 
 
 Owen was the only one to whom the words were intelligible, 
 and he was far too deeply impressed, or rather alarmed, to reply. 
 She did not faint, and soon began to recover her self-command. 
 Owen took advantage of the hindrance to step back to where 
 the apparition had been seen. He was enraged with Spring- 
 rove for what he considered an unwarrantable intrusion. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 233 
 
 But Edward was not in the chantry. As he had come, so he 
 had gone, nobody could tell how or whither. 
 
 § 4. Afternoon. 
 
 It might almost have been believed that an impossibility had 
 taken place in Cytherea's idiosyncrasy, and that her nature had 
 changed. 
 
 The wedding-party returned to the house. As soon as he 
 could find an opportunity, Owen took his sister aside to speak 
 privately with her on what had happened. The expression 
 of her face was hard, wild, and unreal — an expression he had 
 never seen there before, and it disturbed him. He spoke to her 
 severely and sadly. 
 
 "Cytherea," he said, "I know the cause of this emotion of 
 yours. But remember this, there was no excuse for it. You 
 should have been woman enough to control yourself. Remem- 
 ber whose wife you are, and don't think anything more of a 
 mean-spirited fellow like Springrove; he had no business to 
 come there as he did. You are altogether wrong, Cytherea, 
 and I am vexed with you more than I can say — very vexed." 
 
 "Say ashamed of me at once," she bitterly answered. 
 
 'T am ashamed of you," he retorted angrily. "The mood has 
 not left you yet, then?" 
 
 "Owen," she said, and paused. Her lip trembled; her eye 
 told of sensations too deep for tears. "No, Owen, it has not left 
 me; and I will be honest. I own now to you, without any 
 disguise of words, what last night I did not own to myself, 
 because I hardly knew of it. I love Edward Springrove with all 
 my strength, and heart, and soul. You call me a wanton for it, 
 don't you? I don't care, I have gone beyond caring for any- 
 thing!" She looked stonily into his face, and made the speech 
 calmly. 
 
 "Well, poor Cytherea, don't talk like that!" he said, alarmed 
 at her manner. 
 
 "I thought that I did not love him at all," she went on 
 hysterically. "A year and a half had passed since we met. I 
 could go by the gate of his garden without thinking of him — 
 look at his seat in church and not care. But I saw him this 
 morning — dying because he loves me so — I know it is that! 
 
234 Df.rfPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Can I help loving^ liini too? Xo, I cannot, and I will love him, 
 and I don't care. We have been sejiarated somehow by some 
 ccmtrivance — I know we have. Oh, if I could only die!" 
 
 lie held her in his arms. "Many a woman has gf<)ne to ruin 
 herself," he said, "and brought those who love her into disgrace, 
 by acting upon such impulses as possess you now. I have a rep- 
 utation to lose as well as you. It seems that, do what I will by 
 way of remedying the stains which fell upon us, it is all doomed 
 to be undone again." His voice grew husky as he made the 
 reply. 
 
 The right and only effective chord had been touched. Since 
 she had seen Edward she had thought only of herself and him. 
 Owen — her name — position — future — had been as if they did 
 not exist. 
 
 "I won't give way and become a disgrace to you at any rate," 
 she said. 
 
 "Besides, your duty to society and those about you recjuires 
 that you should live with (at any rate) all the appearance of a 
 good wife, and try to love your husband." 
 
 "Yes — my duty to society," she murmured. "But. ah, Owen, 
 it is difficult to adjust our outer and inner life with perfect 
 honesty to all! Though it may be right to care more for the 
 benefit of the many than for the indulgence of your own single 
 self, when you consider that the many, and duty to them, only 
 exist to you through your own existence, what can be sajtl? 
 What do our own acquaintances care about us? Not much. I 
 think of mine. Mine will now (do they learn all the wicked frailty 
 of my heart in this affair) look at me, smile sickly, and condemn 
 me. And perhajis, far in time to come, when I am dead and 
 gone, some other's accent, or some other's song, or thought, 
 like an old one of mine, will carry them back to what I used to 
 say, and hurt their hearts a little that they blamed me so soon. 
 And they will pause just for an instant, and give a sigh to me, 
 and think,. 'Poor girl,' believing they do great justice to my 
 memory by this. But they will never, never realize that it was 
 my single oppcjrtvmity of existence, as well as of doing my 
 duty, which they are regarding: they will not feel that what to 
 them is but a thought, easily held in those two words of pitv, 
 i'oor girl.' was a whole life to me; as full of hours, minutes, 
 and peculiar minutes, of hopes and dreads, smiles, whisperings, 
 tears, as theirs: that it was mv world, what is to the:n their 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 235 
 
 world, and they in that Hfe of mine, however much I cared for 
 them, only as the thought I seem to them to be. Nobody can 
 enter into another's nature truly, that's what is so grievous." 
 
 "Well, it cannot be helped," said Owen. 
 
 "But we must not stay here," she continued, starting up and 
 going. "We shall be missed. I'll do my best, Owen — I will, 
 indeed." 
 
 It had been decided that, on account of the wretched state of 
 the roads, the newly married pair should not drive to the station 
 till the latest hour in the afternoon at which they could get a 
 train to take them to Southampton (their destination that night) 
 by a reasonable time in the evening. They intended the next 
 morning to cross to Havre, and thence to Paris — a place Cy- 
 therea had never visited — for their wedding tour. 
 
 The afternoon drew on. The packing was done. Cytherea 
 was so restless that she could stay still nowhere. Miss Ald- 
 clyfife, who, though she took little part in the day's proceedings, 
 was as it were instinctively conscious of all their movements, 
 put down her charge's agitation for once as the natural result 
 of the novel event, and Manston himself was as indulgent as 
 could be wished. 
 
 At length Cytherea wandered alone into the conservatory. 
 When in it, she thought she would run across to the hot-house 
 in the outer garden, having in her heart a whimsical desire that 
 she should also like to take a last look at the familiar flowers 
 and luxuriant leaves collected there. She pulled on a pair of 
 overshoes, and thither she went. Not a soul was in or around 
 the place. The gardener was making merry on Manston's and 
 her account. 
 
 The happiness that a generous spirit derives from the belief 
 that it exists in others, is often greater than the primary happi- 
 ness itself. The gardener thought, "How happy they are!" and 
 the thought made him happier than they. 
 
 Coming out of the forcing-house again, she was on the point 
 of returning indoors, when a feeling that these moments of 
 solitude would be her last of freedom induced hei to prolong 
 them a little, and she stood still, unheeding the wintry aspect 
 of the curly leaved plants, and straw-covered beds, and the bare 
 fruit-trees around her. The garden, no part of which was visible 
 from the house, sloped down to a narrow river at the foot, 
 dividing it from the nieadows without. 
 
236 DKSPERATK REMKDIKS. 
 
 A man was lingfcrinjij along the public path on the other side 
 of the river; she fancied she knew the form. Her resolutions, 
 taken in the presence of Owen, did not fail her now. She hoped 
 and |)rayed th.at it might not be one who had stolen her heart 
 away and still kept it. Why should he have reappeared at 
 all, when he had declared that he went out of her sight 
 forever? 
 
 She hastily hid herself in the lowest corner of the garden 
 close to the river. A large dead tree, thickly robed in ivy, had 
 been considerably dejjressed by its icy load of the morning, 
 and hung low over the stream, which here ran slow and deep. 
 The tree screened her from the eyes of any passer on the other 
 side. 
 
 She waited timidly, and her timidity increased. She would 
 not allow herself to sec him — she would hear him pass, and then 
 look to see if it had been Edward. 
 
 lUit. before she heard anything, she became aware of an 
 object reflected in the water from under the tree, which hung 
 over the nver in such a way that, though hiding the actual path, 
 and objects upon it, it permitted their reflected images to pass 
 beneath its boughs. The reflected form was that of the man 
 she had seen farther off, but being inverted, she could not 
 definitely characterize him. 
 
 He was looking at the upper windows of the house — at hers 
 — was it Edward, indeed? If so, he was probably thinking he 
 would like to say one parting word. He came closer, gazed 
 into the stream, and walked very slowly. She was almost cer- 
 tain that it was Edward. She kept more safely hidden. Con- 
 science told her that she ought not to see him. But she sud- 
 denly asked herself a question: "Can it be possible that he sees 
 my reflected image as I see his? Of course he does." 
 
 He was looking at her in the water. 
 
 She could not help herself now. She stepped forward just 
 as he emerged from the other side of the tree and appeared 
 -erect before her. It was Edward Springrove — till the inverted 
 visii>n met his eye, dreaming no more of seeing his Cytlierea 
 there than of seeing the dead themselves. 
 
 "Cytherea !" 
 
 "Mr. Springrove." she returned, in a low voice, across the 
 stream. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 237 
 
 He was the first to speak again. 
 
 "Since we have met I want to tell you something before we 
 become quite as strangers to each other." 
 
 "No — not now — I did not mean to speak — it is not right, 
 Edward." She spoke hurriedly and turned away from him, 
 beating the air with her hand. 
 
 "Not one common word of explanation?" he implored. 
 "Don't think I am bad enough to try to lead you astray. Well, 
 go — it is better." 
 
 Their eyes met again. She was nearly choked. Oh, how she 
 longed — and dreaded — to hear his explanation ! 
 
 "What is it?" she said desperately. 
 
 "It is that I did not come to the church this morning in order 
 to distress you; I did not, Cytherea. It was to try to speak to 
 you before you were — married." 
 
 He stepped closer, and went on, "You know what has taken 
 place? Surely you do? — my cousin is married, and I am free." 
 
 "JMarried — and not to you?" Cytherea faltered in a weak 
 whisper. 
 
 "Yes, she was married yesterday! A rich man had appeared, 
 and she jilted me. She said she never would have jilted a 
 stranger, but that by jilting me she only exercised the right 
 everybody has of snubbing their own relations. But that's 
 
 nothing now. I came to you to ask once more if 
 
 But I was too late." 
 
 "But, Edward, what's that, what's that!" she cried in an 
 agony of reproach. "Why did you leave me to return to her? 
 Why did you write me that cruel, cruel letter that nearly killed 
 me?" 
 
 "Cytherea ! Why, you had grown to love — like — Mr. Man- 
 ston. and how could you be anything to me — or care for me? 
 Surely I acted naturally?" 
 
 "Oh, no — never! I loved you — only you — not him — always 
 you! till lately. ... I try to love him now." 
 
 "But that can't be correct! Miss Aldclyffe told me that you 
 wanted to hear no more of me — proved it to me !" said Edward. 
 
 "Never! she couldn't." 
 
 "She did, Cytherea. And she sent me a letter — a love-letter 
 you wrote to Mr. Manston." 
 
 "A love-letter I wrote?" 
 
 18 
 
238 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 ''Yes, a lovc-lctter — you could not meet him just tlien. you 
 said you were sorry. Init the emotion you had fch with him made 
 you forj:;;etful c»f reahtics." 
 
 The strife of thout,dit in the unhappy girl who listened to 
 this distortion of her meaning could find no vent in wonls. 
 And then there followed the slow revelation in return, bringing 
 w ith it all the misery of an explanation which comes too late. 
 The question whether Miss AldclyfTe was schemer or dupe 
 was almost passed over by Cytherea under the immediate 
 opi)ressiveness of her despair in the sense that her position was 
 irretrievable. 
 
 Not so Springrove. He saw through all the cunning half- 
 misrepresentations — worse than downright lies — which had just 
 been sufficient to turn the scale both with him and with her; 
 and from the bottom of his soul he cursed the woman and man 
 who had brought all this agony upon him and his love. 
 
 lUit he could not add more misery to the future of the poor 
 child by revealing too much. The whole scheme she should 
 never know. 
 
 "I was indifferent to my own future," Edward said, "aiid was 
 urged to promise adherence to my engagement with my cousin 
 Adelaide by Miss AidclyfFe: now you are married I caimot 
 tell you how. but it was on account of my father. Being for- 
 bidden to think of you, what did I care about anything? My 
 new thought that you still loved me was first raised by what my 
 father said in the letter announcing my cousin's marriage. He 
 said that although you were to be married on Old Christmas 
 Day — that is to-morrow — he had noticed your appearance with 
 l)ity; he thought you loved me still. It was enough for me — I 
 came down by the earliest morning train, thinking I could see 
 you some time to-day. the day. as I thought, liefore your mar- 
 riage, hoping, but hardly daring to hope, that you might be 
 induced to marry me. I hurried from the station; when I 
 reached the bottom of Church Lane I saw idlers about the 
 church, and the private gate leading to the house open. I ran 
 into the church by the north door, and saw you come out of 
 the vestry; I was too late. I have now told you. I was com- 
 jielled to tell you. Oh, my lost darling, now I shall live con- 
 tent — or cKe content!" 
 
 "I am to blame, Edward. I am." she said m<nirnfully. "I 
 was taught to dread pauperism; my nights were made sleep- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 239 
 
 less; there was continually reiterated in my ears till I believed 
 it: 
 
 " 'The world and its ways have a certain worth, 
 
 And to press a point where these oppose 
 
 Were a simple policy.' 
 
 "But I will say nothing about who influenced — who per- 
 suaded. The act is mine after all. Edward, I married to escape 
 dependence for my bread upon the whim of Aliss AldclylTe, or 
 others like her. It was clearly represented to me that depend- 
 ence is bearable if we have another place which we can call 
 home ; but to be a dependent and to have no other spot for the 
 heart to anchor upon — oh, it is mournful and harassing! . . 
 But that without which all persuasion would have been as air, 
 was added by my miserable conviction that you were false; 
 that did it, that turned me! You were to be considered as no- 
 Ijody to me, and Mr. Manston was invariably kind. Well, the 
 deed is done — I must abide by it. I shall never let him know 
 that I do not love him — never. If things had only remained 
 as they seemed to be, if you had really forgotten me and mar- 
 ried another woman, I could have borne it better. I wish I did 
 not know the truth as I know it now! But our life, what is it? 
 Let us be brave, Edward, and live out our few remaining years 
 with dignity. They will not be long. Oh, I hope they will not 
 be long! .... Now, good-by, good-by!" 
 
 "I wish I could be near and touch you once, just once," said 
 Springrove, in a voice which he vainly endeavored to keep 
 firm and clear. 
 
 They looked at the river, then into it; a shoal of minnows 
 was floating over the sandy bottom, like the black dashes on 
 miniver; though narrow, the stream was deep, and there was 
 ■no bridge. 
 
 "Cytherea, reach out your hand that I may just touch it with 
 mine." 
 
 She stepped to the brink and stretched out her hand and 
 fingers toward his, but not into them. The river was too wide. 
 
 "Never mind," said Cytherea, her voice broken by agitation, 
 "I must be going. God bless and keep you, my Edward! God 
 bless you !" 
 
 "I must touch you, I must press your hand," he said. 
 
 They came near — nearer — nearer still — their fingers met. 
 
 16 
 
240 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 There was a long, firm clasp, so close and still that each hand 
 could feel the other's pulse throbbing beside its own. 
 
 "My Cytherea! my stolen pet lamb!" 
 
 She glanced a mute farewell from her large perturbed eyes, 
 turned, and ran up the garden without looking back. All 
 was over between them. The river flowed on as quietly and 
 obtusely as ever, and the minnows gathered again in their 
 favorite spot as if they had never been disturbed. 
 
 Xoboily indoors guessed from her countenance and bearing 
 that her lieart was near to breaking with the intensity of the 
 misery which gnawed there. At these times a woman does not 
 faint, or weep, or scream, as she will in the moment of sudden 
 shocks. When lanced by a mental agony of such refined and 
 special torture that it is indescribable by men's words, she 
 moves among her acquaintances much as before, and contrives 
 so to cast her actions in the old molds that she is only con- 
 sidered to be rather duller than usual. 
 
 § 5. Half past two to five o'clock p. m. 
 
 Owen accompanied the newly married couple to the railway 
 station, and in his anxiety to see the last of his sister, left the 
 brougham and stood upon his crutches while tlie train was 
 starting. 
 
 When the husband and wife were about to enter the railway 
 carriage they saw one of the porters looking freciuently and 
 furtively at them. He was pale, and apparently very ill. 
 
 "Look at that poor, sick man," said Cytherea compassion- 
 ately; "surely he ought not to be here." 
 
 "He's been very queer to-day, madam, very queer," another 
 porter answered. "He do hardly hear when he's spoken to, 
 and d' seem giddy, or as if something was on his mind. He's 
 been like it for this month past, but nothing so bad as he is 
 to-day." 
 
 "Poor thing." 
 
 She could not resist an innate desire to do some just thing 
 on this most deceitful and wretched day of her life. Going up 
 to him she gave him money, and told him to send to the old 
 manor-house for wine or whatever he wanted. 
 
 The train moved off as the trembling man was murmuring 
 his incoherent thanks. Owen waved his hand: Cvtherea smiled 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 241 
 
 back to him as if it were unknown to her that she wept all the 
 while. 
 
 Owen was driven back to the Old House. But he could not 
 rest in the lonely place. His conscience began to reproach him 
 for having forced on the marriage of his sister with a little 
 too much peremptoriness. Taking up his crutches he went out 
 of doors and wandered about the muddy roads with no object 
 in view save that of getting rid of time. 
 
 The clouds which had hung so low and densely during the 
 day cleared from the west just now as the sun was setting, 
 calling forth a weakly twitter from a few small birds. Owen 
 crawled down the path to the waterfall, and lingered there- 
 about till the solitude of the place oppressed him, when he 
 turned back and into the road to the village. He was sad; he 
 said to himself: 
 
 'Tf there is ever any meaning in those feelings which are 
 called presentiments — and I don't believe there is — there will 
 be in mine to-day Poor little Cytherea !" 
 
 At that moment the last low rays of the sun touched the head 
 and shoulders of a man who was approaching, and showed 
 him up to Owen's view. It was Mr. Springrove. They had 
 grown familiar with each other by reason of Owen's visits to 
 Knapwater during the past year. The farmer inquired how 
 Owen's foot was progressing, and was glad to see him so nimble 
 again. 
 
 "How is your son?" said Owen mechanically. 
 
 "He is at home, sitting by the fire," said the farmer, in a 
 sad voice. "This mornen he slipped indoors from God knows 
 where, and there he sits and mopes, and thinks and thinks, 
 and presses his head so hard, that I can't help feelen for him." 
 
 "Is he married?" said Owen. Cytherea had feared to tell 
 him of the interview in the garden. 
 
 "No. I can't quite understand how the matter rests. . . . 
 Ah! Edward, too, who started with such promise; that he 
 should now have become such a careless fellow — not a month 
 in one place. There, Mr. Graye, I know what it is mainly owing 
 to. If it hadn't been for that heart affair he might have done — 
 but the less said about him the better. I don't know what we 
 should have done if ]\Iiss Aldclyffe had insisted upon the 
 conditions of the leases. Your brother-in-law, the steward, had 
 a hand in maken it light for us, I know, and I heartily thank 
 
242 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 liini for it." He ceased speaking, and looked round at the 
 sky. 
 
 "Have you heard o' what's happened?" he said suddenly; 
 "I was just comen out to learn about it." 
 
 "I haven't heard of anything." 
 
 "It is something very serious, though I ilon't know what. 
 All I know is what I heard a man call out by-now — that it verv 
 much concerns s«)niel)ody who lives in the parish." 
 
 It seems singular en-nigh, even to minds who have no dim 
 beliefs in adumbration and presentiment, that at that moment 
 not the shadow of a thought crossed Owen's mind that the 
 somebody whom the matter concerned might be himself, or any 
 belonging to him. The event about to transpire was as 
 portentous to the woman whose welfare was more dear to him 
 than his own, as any, short of death itself, could possibly be; 
 and ever afterward, when he considered the effect of the knowl- 
 edge the next half-hour conveyed to his brain, even his practical 
 good sense could not refrain from wonder that he should have 
 walked toward the village after hearing the words of the farmer 
 in so leisurely and unconcerned a way. "How unutterably 
 mean must my intelligence have appeared to the eye of a fore- 
 seeing God." he frequently said in after time. "Columbus on 
 the eve of his discovery of a w<:)rld was not so contemptibly 
 unaware." 
 
 After a few additional words of commonplace, the farmer 
 loft him, and, as has been said, Owen proceeded slowly and 
 indifferently toward the village. 
 
 The laboring-men had just left work, and passed the park 
 gate which opened into the street as Owen came down toward 
 it. They went along in a drift, earnestly talking, and were 
 finally about to turn into their respective doorways. But upon 
 seeing him they looked significantly at one another and paused. 
 He came into the road, on that side of the village green which 
 was opposite the row of cottages, and tumed round to the right. 
 When Owen turned, all eyes turned; one or two men went 
 hurriedly indoors, and afterward appeared at the doorstep, 
 with tiieir wives, who also contemplated him, talking as they 
 looked. They seemed uncertain how to act in some matter. 
 
 "If they want me, surely they will call me." he thought. wo-i- 
 doring more and more. He could no longer doubt that he was 
 connected with the subject of their discourse. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 243 
 
 The first who approached him was a boy. 
 
 "What has occurred?" said Owen. 
 
 "Oh, a man ha' got crazy-rehgious, and sent for the pa'son." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. He wished he was dead, he said, and he's almost 
 out of his mind wi' wishen it so much. That was before Mr. 
 Raunham came." 
 
 "Who is he?" said Owen. 
 
 "Joseph Chinney, one of the railway porters; he used to be 
 night porter." 
 
 "Ah ! the man who was ill this afternoon ; by the way, he was 
 told to come to the house for something, but he hasn't been. 
 But has anything else happened — anything that concerns the 
 wedding to-day?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 Concluding that the connection which had seemed to be 
 traced between himself and the event must in some way have 
 arisen from Cytherea's friendliness toward the man, Owen 
 turned about and went homeward in a much quieter frame of 
 mind, yet scarcely satisfied with the solution. The route he 
 had chosen led through the dairy-yard, and he opened the 
 gate. 
 
 Five minutes before this point of time Edward Springrove 
 w^as looking over one of his father's fields at an outlying hamlet 
 of three or four cottages some mile and a half distant. A turn- 
 pike gate was close by the gate of the field. 
 
 The carrier to Froominster came up, as Edward stepped into 
 the road, and jumped down from the van to pay toll. He rec- 
 ognized Springrove. "This is a pretty set-to in your place, sir," 
 he said. "You don't know about it, I suppose?" 
 
 "What?" said Springrove. 
 
 The carrier paid his dues, came up to Edward, and spoke ten 
 words in a confidential whisper; then sprang upon the shafts 
 of his vehicle, gave a clinching nod of significance to Spring- 
 rove, and rattled away. 
 
 Edward turned pale with the intelligence. His first thought 
 was, "Bring her home." 
 
 The next — did Owen Graye know what had been discovered? 
 He probably did by that time, but no risk of probability must 
 be run by a woman he loved dearer than all the world besides. 
 He would at any rate make perfectly sure that her brother was 
 
244 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 in possession of tlie knowledge by telling it liiin with hi? own 
 lips. 
 
 Off he ran in the direction of the old manor-house. 
 
 The path was across arable land, and was jilowed up with 
 the rest of the field even,- autumn, after which it was trodden 
 out afresh. The thaw had so loosened the soft earth, that lumps 
 of stiff mud were lifted by his feet at every leap he took, and 
 flung against him by his rapid motion, as it were doggedly 
 impeding him, and increasing tenfold the customary efTort <"f 
 ruiming. 
 
 Hut he ran on — up hill and down hill, the same pace alike — 
 like the shadow of a cloud. His nearest direction, too. like 
 Owen's, was through the dairy-barton, and as (3wen entered it 
 he saw the figure of Edward rapidly descending the opposite 
 hill, at a distance of two or three hundred yards. Owen ad- 
 vanced amid the cows. 
 
 The dairyman, who had hitherto been talking loudly on 
 some absorbing subject to the maids and men milking around 
 him, turned his face toward the head of the cow when Owen 
 passed, and ceased speaking. 
 
 Owen approached him and said: 
 
 "A singular thing has happened, I hear. The man is not 
 insane, I suppose?" 
 
 "Not he; he's sensible enough," said the dairyman, and 
 paused. He was a man noisy with his associates, st-'Hil mil 
 taciturn with strangers. 
 
 "Is it true that he is Chinney, the railway porter?" 
 
 "That's the man. sir." The maids and men sitting uiulir the 
 cows were all attentively listening to this discourse, milking 
 irregularly, and softly directing the jets against the sides of the 
 ])ail. 
 
 Owen could contain himself no longer, much as his mind 
 dreaded anything of the nature of ridicule. "The people all 
 seem to look at me as if something seriously concerned me; is 
 it this stuj)id matter, or what is it?" 
 
 "Surelv, sir, you know better tlinii anylmdy else if such a 
 strange thing concerns you." 
 
 "W'liat strange thing?" 
 
 "Don't you know? His confessing to Parson Rnunliam." 
 
 "What did he confess? tell me." 
 
 "If vou reallv ha'n't heard, 'lis this: He was as usual on 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 245 
 
 duty at the station on the night of the fire last year, otherwise 
 he wouldn't ha' known it." 
 
 "Known what? for God's sake, tell, man." 
 
 But at this instant the two opposite gates of the dairy-yard, 
 one on the east and the other on the west side, slammed almost 
 simultaneously. 
 
 The rector from one, Springrove from the other, came strid- 
 ing across the barton. 
 
 Edward was nearest, and spoke first. He said in a low voice, 
 "Your sister is not legally married! His first wife is still living! 
 How it comes out I don't know !" 
 
 "Oh, here you are at last, Mr. Graye, thank heaven!" said 
 the rector breathlessly. "I have been to the Old House and 
 then to Miss Aldclyffe's looking for you — something very ex- 
 traordinary." He beckoned to Owen, afterward included 
 Springrove in his glance, and the three stepped aside together. 
 
 "A porter at the station. He was a curious, nervous man. 
 He had been in a strange state all day, but he wouldn't go 
 home. Your sister was kind to him, it seems, this afternoon. 
 When she and her husband had gone, he went on with his 
 work, shifting luggage-vans. Well, he got in the way, as if he 
 were quite lost to what was going on, and they sent him home 
 at last. Then he wished to see me. I went directly. There 
 was something on his mind, he said, and told it. About the 
 time when the fire of last November twelvemonth was got 
 under, while he was by himself in the porter's room, almost 
 asleep, somebody came to the station and tried to open the 
 door. He went out and found the person to be the lady he 
 had accompanied to Carriford earlier in the evening, ]\Irs. Man- 
 ston. She asked, when would be another train to London? 
 The first the next morning, he told her, was at a quarter-past six 
 o'clock from Creston, but that it was express, and didn't stop 
 at Carriford Road — it didn't stop till it got to Froominster. 
 'How far is it to Froominster?' she said. 'Four miles,' he said. 
 She thanked him, and went away up the line. In a short time 
 she ran back and took out her purse. 'Don't on any account 
 say a word in the village or anywhere that I have been here, or 
 a single breath about me — Fm ashamed ever to have come.' 
 He promised; she took out two sovereigns. 'Swear it on the 
 Testament in the waiting-room,' she said, 'and Fll pay you 
 these.' He got the book, took an oath upon it, received the 
 
246 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 money, and she left him. He was off duty at half-past five. 
 He has kept silence all through the intervening time till now, 
 but lately the knowledge he possessed weighed heavily upon 
 his conscience and weak mind. Yet the nearer came the wed- 
 ding-day the more he feared to tell. The actual marriage filleil 
 iiim with remorse. He says your sister's kindness afterwar*! 
 was like a knife going through his heart. He thought he had 
 ruined her." 
 
 "iUit whatever can be done? Why didn't he speak sooner?" 
 cried Owen. 
 
 "He actually called at my house twice yesterday." the rector 
 continued, "resolved, it seems, to unburden his mind. I wms 
 out both times — he left no message, and they say he looked 
 relieved that his object was defeated. Then he says he resolved 
 to come to you at the Old House last night — started, reached 
 the door, and dreaded to knock — and then went home again." 
 
 "Here will be a tale for the newsmongers of the county," said 
 Owen bitterly. "The idea of his not opening his mouth sooner 
 — the criminality of the thing!" 
 
 "Ah, that's the inconsistency of a weak nature. But now that 
 it is put to us in this way, how much more probable it seems 
 that she should have escaped than have been burned — " 
 
 "You will, of course, go straight to Mr. Manston and ask 
 him what it all means?" Edward interrupted. 
 
 "Of course I shall. Manston has no right to earn- off my 
 sister unless he's her husband," said Owen; *T shall go and 
 separate them." 
 
 "Certainly you will," said the rector. 
 
 "Where's the man?" 
 
 "In his cottage." 
 
 " 'Tis no use going to him. either. I must go off at once and 
 overtake them — lay the case before Manston, and ask him for 
 additional and certain proofs of his first wife's death. An up- 
 train passes soon, I think." 
 
 "Where have they gone?" said Edward. 
 
 "To Paris — as far as Southampton this afternoon, to proceed 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Where in Southampton?" 
 
 "I really don't know — some hotel. T only have their Paris 
 address. P.ut I shall find them by making a few inquiries." 
 
 The rector had in the meantime been taking out his pocket- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 247 
 
 book, and now opened it at the first page, whereon it was his 
 custom every month to gum a small railway time-table — cut 
 from the local newspaper. 
 
 "The afternoon express is just gone," he said, holding open 
 the page, "and the next train to Southampton passes at ten 
 minutes to six o'clock. Now it wants — let me see — five-and- 
 forty minutes to that time. Mr. Graye, my advice is that you 
 come with me to the porter's cottage, where I will shortly write 
 out the substance of what he has said, and get him to sign it. 
 You will then have far better grounds for interfering between 
 ]\Ir. and Mrs. Manston than if you went to them with a mere 
 hearsay story." 
 
 The suggestion seemed a good one. "Yes, there will be 
 time before the train starts," said Owen. 
 
 Edward had been musing restlessly. 
 
 "Let me go to Southampton in your place, on account of 
 your lameness?" he said suddenly to Graye. 
 
 "I am much obliged to you, but I think I can scarcely accept 
 the ofifer," returned Owen coldly. "Mr. Manston is an honor- 
 able man, and I had nnich better see him myself." 
 
 "There is no doubt," said Mr. Raunham, "that the death of 
 his wife was fully believed in by himself." 
 
 "None whatever," said Owen ; "and the news must be broken 
 to him, and the question of other proofs asked in a friendly 
 way. It would not do for Mr. Springrove to appear in the 
 case at all." He still spoke rather coldly; the recollection of 
 the attachment between his sister and Edward was not a pleas- 
 ant one to him. 
 
 "You will never find them," said Edward. "You have never 
 been to Southampton, and I know every house there." 
 
 "That makes little difference," said the rector; "he will have 
 a cab. Certainly ]\Ir. Graye is the proper man to go on the 
 errand." 
 
 "Stay; I'll telegraph to ask them to meet me when I arriA'c 
 at the terminus," said Owen; "that is, if their train has not al- 
 ready arrived." 
 
 Air. Raunham pulled out his pocket-book again. "The two- 
 thirty train reached Southampton a quarter of an hour ago," 
 he said. 
 
 It was too late to catch them at tlic station. Nevertheless, 
 the rector suggested that it would be worth while to direct a 
 
243 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 inessape to "all the respectable hotels in Southampton" on the 
 ciiance of its finding them, and thus saving a deal of personal 
 labor to Owen in searching about the place. 
 
 "Ill go and telegraph, while you return to the man," said 
 Edward: an offer which was accepted. Grave and the rector 
 then turned off in the direction of the porter's cottage. 
 
 Edward, to dispatch the message at once, inirriedly followed 
 the road toward the station, still restlessly thinking. All 
 Owen's proceedings were based on tiie assumption, natural 
 under the circumstances, of Manston"s good faith, and that he 
 would readily acquiesce in any arrangement which should clear 
 up the mystery. "But," thought Edward, "suppose — and 
 heaven forgive me, I cannot help supptjsing it — that Manston 
 is not that hcjnorable man, what will a young and inexperienced 
 fellow like Owen do? Will he not be hoodwinked by some 
 specious story or another, framed to last till Manston gets tired 
 of poor Cytherea? And then the disclosure of the truth will ruin 
 ami blacken both their futures irremediably." 
 
 However, he proceeded to execute his commission. This 
 he put in the form of a simple request from Owen to Manston, 
 that Manston would come to the Southampton platform and 
 wait for Owen's arrival, as he valued his reputation. The mes- 
 sage was directed as the rector had suggested. Edward guaran- 
 teeing to the clerk who sent it off that every expense connected 
 with the search would be paid. 
 
 No sooner had the telegram been dispatched than his heart 
 sank within him at the want of foresight shown in sending it. 
 Mad Manston all the time a knowledge that his first wife lived 
 the telegram would be a forewarning which might enable him 
 to defeat Owen still more signally. 
 
 While the machine was still giving off its multitudinous 
 series of raps, Edward heard a powerful rush under the shed 
 outside, followed, by a long sonorous creak. It was a train 
 of some sort, stealing softly into the station, and it was an up- 
 train. There was the ring of a boll. It was certainly a passen- 
 ger-train. 
 
 Yet the booking-office window was closed. 
 
 "IIo, ho, John, seventeen minutes after time, and only three 
 stations up the line. The incline again?" The voice was the 
 station-master's, and the reply seemed to come from the guard. 
 
 "Yes. tin- otlur sido <.f llu- tuniu'l. Tlie thaw lias made it all 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 249 
 
 in a perfect cloud of fog, and the rails are as slippery as glass. 
 We had to bring them through the tunnel at twice." 
 
 "Anybody else for the four-forty-five express?" the voice con- 
 tinued. The few passengers having crossed over to the other 
 side long before this time, had taken their places at once. 
 
 A conviction suddenly broke in upon Edward's mind; 
 then a wish overwhelmed him. The conviction — as startling 
 as it was sudden — was that Manston was a villain, who at 
 some earlier time had discovered that his wife lived, and had 
 bribed her to keep out of sight, that he might possess Cytherea. 
 The wish was — to proceed at once by this very train that was 
 starting, find Manston before he would expect from the words 
 of the telegram (if he got it) that anybody from Carriford 
 could be with him — charge him boldly with the crime, and trust 
 to his consequent confusion (if he were guilty) for a solution of 
 the extraordinary riddle, and the release of Cytherea! 
 
 The ticket-office had been locked up at the expiration of 
 the time at which the train was due. Rushing out as the guard 
 blew his whistle, Edward opened the door of a carriage and 
 leaped in. The train moved along, and he was soon out of 
 sight. 
 
 Springrove had long since passed that peculiar line which 
 lies across the course of falling in love — if indeed it may not be 
 called the initial itself of the complete passion— a longing to 
 cherish; when the woman is shifted in a man's mind from 
 the region of mere admiration to the region of warm fellowship. 
 At this assumption of her nature, she changes to him in tone, 
 hue, and expression. All about the loved one that said "Her" 
 before says "Us" now. Eyes that were to be subdued become 
 eyes to be feared for; a brain that was to be probed by cyni- 
 cism becomes a brain that is to be tenderly assisted; feet that 
 were to be tested in the dance become feet that are not to be 
 distressed; the once-criticised accent, manner, and dress, be- 
 come the clients of a special pleader. 
 
 § 6. Five to eight o'clock p. m. 
 
 Now that he was fairly on the track, and had begun to 
 cool down, Edward remembered that he had nothing to show 
 — no legal authority whatever to question Manston, or inter- 
 fere between him and Cytherea as husband and wife. He 
 
250 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 HOW saw the wisdom of the rector in obtaining- a sig^ned con- 
 fession from the porter. The document would not be a death- 
 bed confession — perhaps not worth anytliinj; legally — but it 
 would be held by Owen, and he alone, as Cythcrea's natural 
 guardian, could separate them on the mere ground of an 
 unproved probability, or what might perhaps be called the 
 hallucination of an idiot. Edward himself, however, was as 
 firmly convinced as the rector had been of the truth of the 
 man's story, and paced backward and forward tlie solitary com- 
 ])artment as the train wound through the dark hcathcr\- plains, 
 the mazy woods, and moaning coppices, as resolved as ever to 
 pounce on Manston, and charge him with the crime tluring the 
 critical interval between the leception of the telegram and the 
 hour at which Owen's train would arrive — trusting to circum- 
 stances for what he should say and do afterward, but making 
 up his mind to be a ready second to Owen in any emergency 
 that might arise. 
 
 At thirty-three minutes past seven he stood on the platform 
 of the station at Southampton: a clear hour before the train 
 containing Owen could possibly arrive. 
 
 Making a few inquiries here, but too impatient to pursue his 
 investigation carefully and inductively, he went into the town. 
 
 At the exjiiration of another half-hour he had visited seven 
 hotels and inns, large and small, asking the same questions at 
 each, and always receiving the same reply — nobody of that 
 name, or answering to that description, had been there. A 
 boy from the telegraph-oftice had called, asking for the same 
 jXTSons, if they recollected rightly. 
 
 He reflected awhile, struck again by a painful thought that 
 they might possibly have decided to cross the Channel by the 
 night bc^at. Then he hastened off to another quarter of the 
 town to pursue his inquiries among hotels of the more old- 
 fashioned and quiet class. His stained and weary appearance 
 obtained for him but a modicum of civility wherever he went, 
 which made his task yet more difficult. lie called at three 
 several houses in this neighborhood, with the same result as 
 before. lie entered the door of the fourth house while the 
 clock of the nearest church was striking eight. 
 
 "Have a tall gentleman named Manston and a young wife 
 arrived here this evening?" he asked again, in words which 
 had grown odd to his ears from very familiarity. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 251 
 
 "A new-married couple, did you say?" 
 
 "They are, though I didn't say so." 
 
 "They have taken a sitting-room and bedroom, number 
 thirteen." 
 
 "Are they indoors?" 
 
 "I don't know. Eliza!" 
 
 "Yes, m'm." 
 
 "See if number thirteen is in — that gentleman and his wife." 
 
 "Yes, m'm." 
 
 "Has any telegram come for them?" said Edward, when the 
 maid had gone on her errand. 
 
 "No — nothing that I know of." 
 
 "Somebody did come and ask if a Mr. and Mrs. Masters, or 
 some 'such name, were here this evening," said another voice 
 from the back of the bar-parlor. 
 
 "And did they get the message?" 
 
 "Of course they did not — they were not here — they didn't 
 come till half an hour after that. The man who made inquiries 
 left no message. I told them when they came that they, or a 
 name something like theirs, had been asked for, but they didn't 
 seem to understand why it should be, and so the matter 
 dropped." 
 
 The chambermaid came back. "The gentleman is not in, 
 but the lady is. Who shall I say?" 
 
 "Nobody," said Edward. For it now became necessary to 
 reflect upon his method of proceeding. His object in finding 
 their whereabouts — apart from the wish to assist Owen — had 
 been to see Manston, ask him flatly for an explanation, and 
 confirm the request of the message in the presence of Cytherea 
 — so as to prevent the possibility of the steward's palming off 
 a story upon Cytherea, or eluding her brother when he came. 
 But here were two important modifications of the expected 
 condition of affairs. The telegram had not been received, and 
 Cytherea was in the house alone. 
 
 He hesitated as to the propriety of intruding upon her in 
 Manston's absence. Besides the women at the bottom of the 
 stairs would see him — his intrusion would seem odd — and 
 Manston might return at any moment. He certainly might 
 call, and wait for iManston with the accusation upon his tongue, 
 as he had intended. But it was a doubtful course. That idea 
 had been based upon the assumption that Cytherea was not 
 
252 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 married. If the first wife were really dead after all — and he felt 
 sick at the thouj^ht — Cytlierea as the steward's wife mij^ht in 
 after years — perhaps at once — be subjected to indignity and 
 cruelty on account of an old lover's interference now. 
 
 Yes, perhaps the announcement would come most properly 
 and safely for her from her brother Owen, the time of whose 
 arrival had almost expired. 
 
 But, on turning round, he saw that the staircase and passage 
 were quite deserted. He and his errand had as completely 
 died from the minds of the attendants as if they had never 
 been. There was absolutely nothing between him and Cy- 
 therea's presence. Reason was powerless now; he must see 
 her — right or wrong, fair or unfair to Manston, offensive to 
 her brother or no. His lips nmst be the first to tell the alarming 
 story to her. Who loved her as he! He went back liglitly 
 through the hall, up the stairs, two at a time, and followed the 
 corridor till he came to the door numbered thirteen. 
 
 He knocked softly: nobody answered. 
 
 There was no time to lose if he woukl speak to Cytherca 
 before Manston came. He turned the handle of the door and 
 looked in. The lamp on the table burned low, and showed 
 writing materials open beside it; the chief light came from 
 the fire, the direct rays of which were obscured by a sweet 
 familiar outline of head and shoulders — still as precious to him 
 as ever. 
 
 § 7. A quarter-past eight p'' clock p. vi. 
 
 Tlierc is an attitude — approximately called pensive — in 
 which the soul of a human being, and especially of a woman, 
 dominates outwardly and expresses its presence so strongly, 
 that the intangible essence seems more apparent than the 
 body itself. This was Cytherea's expression now. What old 
 days and sunny eves at Creston Ray was she picturing? Her 
 reverie had caused her not to notice his knock. 
 
 "Cytherca!" he said, softly. 
 
 She let drop her hand and turned her head, evidently think- 
 ing that her visitor could be no other than Manston, yet 
 jjuzzlcd at the voice. 
 
 There was no preface on Springrove's tongue: he forgot his 
 position — hers — that he had come to ask quietly if Manston 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 253 
 
 had Other proofs of being a widower — everything — and 
 jumped to a conckision 
 
 "You are not his wife, Cytherea — come away, he has a 
 wife hving!" he cried in an agitated whisper. "Owen will be 
 here directly." 
 
 She started up, recognized the tidings first, the bearer of 
 them afterward. "Not his wife? — oh, Avhat is it — what — w^ho is 
 living?" She awoke by degrees. "What must I do? Ed- 
 ward, it is you! Why did you come? Where is Owen?" 
 
 "What has jManston shown you in proof of the death of his 
 other wife? Tell me quick." 
 
 "Nothing — we have never spoken of the subject. Wliere is 
 my brother Owen? I want him, I want him!" 
 
 "He is coming by and by. Come to the station to meet him 
 — do," implored Springrove. "If j\Ir. Manston comes, he will 
 keep you from me: I am nobody," he added bitterly, feeling 
 the reproach her words had faintly shadowed forth. 
 
 "Mr. Manston has only gone out to post a letter he has just 
 written," she said, and without being distinctly cognizant of the 
 action, she wildly looked for her bonnet and cloak, and began 
 putting- them on, but in the act of fastening them uttered a 
 spasmodic cry. 
 
 "No, I'll not go out with you," she said, flinging the articles 
 down again. Running to the door she flitted along the 
 passage, and downstairs. 
 
 "Give me a private room — quite private," she said breath- 
 lessly to some one below. 
 
 "Number twelve is a single room, madam, and unoccupied," 
 said some tongue in astonishment. 
 
 Without waiting for any person to show her into it, Cythe- 
 rea hurried upstairs again, brushed through the corridor^ en- 
 tered the room specified, and closed the door. Edward heard 
 her sob out: 
 
 "Nobody but Owen shall speak to me: nobody!" 
 
 "He will be here directly," said Springrove, close against 
 the panel, and then went toward the stairs. He had seen her; 
 it was enough. 
 
 He descended, stepped into the street, and hastened to meet 
 Owen at the railway station. 
 
 As for the poor maiden who had received the news, slie 
 knew not what to think. She listened till the echo of Edward's 
 
 17 
 
251 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 f jotstc'p-i had (lied away: then bowed her face upon the bod. 
 Her sudden impulse had been to escape from sip:ht. Her 
 weariness after the unwo:ited strain, mental and bodily, which 
 had been i)ut upon her by the scenes she had passcil through 
 tlurint^f the lonq- liay rendered her much more timid and shaken 
 by her jK)siti(.>n than she would naturally have been. She 
 thought and thought of that single fact which had been told 
 her — that the first Mrs. Manston was still living — till her brain 
 seemed ready to burst its confinement with excess of throbbing. 
 It was only natural that she should, by degrees, be unable to 
 separate the discovery, which was matter of fact, from the sus- 
 picion of treachery on her husband's part, which was only 
 matter of inference. And thus there arose in her a personal 
 fear of him. 
 
 "Suppose he should come in now and murder me!" This 
 at first mere frenzied supposition grew by degrees to a definite 
 horror of his presence, and especially of his intense gaze. Thus 
 she raised herself to a heat of excitement, which was none the 
 less real for being vented in no cry of any kind. No: she 
 could not meet Manston's eye alone, she would only see him in 
 her brother's company. 
 
 Almost delirious with this idea, she ran and locked the door 
 to prevent all possibility of her intentions being nullified, or a 
 look or word being flung at her by anybody while she knew 
 not what she was. 
 
 § 8. Half -past eigJit o'clock p. m. 
 
 Then Cytherca felt her way amid the darkness of the room 
 till she came to the head of the bed, where she searched for the 
 bell-rtipe and gave it a pull. Her sunmions was speedily 
 answered by the landlady herself, whose curiosity to know the 
 meaning of these strange proceedings knew n<i bounds. The 
 landlady attempted to turn the handle of the door. Cytherea 
 kept the door locked. "Please tell Mr. Manston wlien he 
 comes that I am ill." she said from the inside, "and that I cannot 
 see him." 
 
 "Certainly I will, madam," said the landlady. "Won't you 
 have a fire?" 
 
 "No. thank you." 
 
 "Nor a light?" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 255 
 
 "I don't want one, thank you." 
 
 "Nor anything?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 The landlady withdrew, thinking her visitor half insane. 
 
 jManston came in about five minutes later, and went at once 
 up to the sitting-room, fully expecting to find his wife there. 
 He looked round, rang, and was told the words Cytherea had 
 said, that she was too ill to be seen. 
 
 "She is in number twelve room," added the maid. 
 
 Manston was alarmed, and knocked at the door. "Cythe- 
 rea !" 
 
 "I am unwell ; I cannot see you," she said. 
 
 "Are you seriously ill, dearest? Surely not." 
 
 "No, not seriously." 
 
 "Let me come in ; I will get a doctor." 
 
 "No, he can't see me either." 
 
 "She won't open the door, sir, not to nobody at all!" said 
 the chambermaid with wonder-waiting eyes. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, and be off!" said Manston with a snap. 
 
 The maid vanished. 
 
 "Come, Cytherea, this is foolish — indeed it is — not opening 
 
 the door I cannot comprehend what can be the matter 
 
 with you. Nor can a doctor either, unless he sees you." 
 
 Her voice had trembled more and more at each answer she 
 gave, but nothing could induce her to come out and confront 
 him. Hating scenes, Manston went back to the sitting-room, 
 greatly irritated and perplexed. 
 
 And there Cytherea from the adjoining room could hear him 
 pacing up and down. She thought, "Suppose he insists upon 
 seeing me — he probably may — and will burst open the door!" 
 This notion increased, and she sank into a corner in a half- 
 somnolent state, but w^ith ears alive to the slightest sound. 
 Reason could not overthrow the delirious fancy that outside her 
 door stood Manston and all the people in the hotel, waiting to 
 laugh her to scorn. 
 
 § 9. Half -past eight to eleven p. m. 
 
 In the meantime Springrove was pacing up and down the 
 arrival platform of the railway station. 
 17 
 
2o6 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Half-past eight o'clock — tlic time at which Owen's train was 
 due — had come, and passed, but no train appeared. 
 
 "When will the cijj^ht-thirty train be in?" he asked of a man 
 who was sweeping the mud from the step. 
 
 "She is not expected yet this hour." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "Christmas-time, you sec, 'tis always so. People are runningf 
 about to see their friends. The trains have been like it ever 
 since Christmas Eve, and will be for another week yet." 
 
 Edward again went on walking and waiting under the 
 draughty roof. He found it utterly impossible to leave the 
 spot. His mind was so intent upon the importance of meeting 
 with Owen, and informing him of Cytherea's whereal)outs. 
 that he could not but fancy Owen might leave the station unob- 
 served if he turned his back, and become lost to him in the 
 streets of the town. 
 
 The hour expired. Ten o'clock struck. "Wlicn will the 
 train be in?" said Edward to the telegraph clerk. 
 
 "In five-and-thirty minutes. She's now at L . They 
 
 have extra passengers, and the rails are bad to-day." 
 
 At last, at a quarter to eleven, the train came in. 
 
 The first to alight from it was Owen, looking pale and 
 cold. He casually glanced round upon the nearly desertetl 
 platform, and was hurrying to the outlet, when his eyes fell 
 upon Edward. At sight of his friend he was quite bewildered, 
 and could not speak. 
 
 "Here I am, Mr. Graye," said Edward cheerfully. "I have 
 cen Cytherea, and she has been waiting for you these two or 
 three hours." 
 
 Owen took Edward's hand, pressed it, and looked at him in 
 silence. Such was the concentration of his mind, that not till 
 many minutes after did he think of inquiring how Springrovf 
 had contrived to be there before him. 
 
 § lo. Eleven c* clock p. m. 
 
 On their arrival at the door of the hotel, it was arranged 
 between Sjiringrove and Graye tluit the latter only should 
 enter. lulward waiting outside. Owen had remembered con- 
 tinually what his friend had frequentlv overlooked, that there 
 was yet a possibility of his sister being Manston's wife, and 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 257 
 
 the recollection taught him to avoid any rashness in his 
 proceedings which might lead to bitterness hereafter. 
 
 Entering the room, he found Manston sitting in the chair 
 wliich had been occupied by Cytherea on Edward's visit, three 
 hours earlier. Before Owen had spoken, Manston arose, and 
 stepping past him, closed the door. His face appeared har- 
 assed — much more troubled than the slight circumstance which 
 had as yet come to his knowledge seemed to account for. 
 
 Manston could form no reason for Owen's presence, but 
 intuitively linked it with Cytherea's seclusion. "Altogether 
 this is most unseemly," he said, "whatever it may mean." 
 
 "Don't think there is meant anything unfriendly by my 
 coming here," said Owen earnestly; "but listen to this, and 
 think if I could do otherwise than come." 
 
 He took from his pocket the confession of Chinney, the 
 porter, as hastily written out by the vicar, and read it aloud. 
 The aspects of ^lanston's face while he listened to the opening 
 words were strange, dark, and mysterious enough to have 
 justified suspicions that no deceit could be too complicated for 
 the possessor of such impulses, had there not overridden them 
 all, as the reading went on, a new and irrepressible expression 
 — one unmistakably honest. It was that of unqualified amaze- 
 ment in the steward's mind at the news he heard. Owen 
 looked up and saw it. The sight only confirmed him in the 
 belief he had held throughout, in antagonism to Edward's sus- 
 picions. 
 
 There could no longer be a shadow of doubt that if the first 
 Mrs. Manston lived, her husband was ignorant of the fact. 
 What he could have feared by his ghastly look at first, and now 
 have ceased to fear, it was quite futile to conjecture. 
 
 "Now I do not for a moment doubt your complete igno- 
 rance of the whole matter; you cannot suppose for an instant 
 that I do," said Owen when he had finished reading. "But is 
 it not best for both that Cytherea should come back with me 
 till the matter is cleared up? In fact, under the circumstances, 
 no other course is left open to me than to request it." 
 
 Whatever Manston's original feelings had been, all in him 
 now gave way to irritation, and irritation to rage. He paced 
 up and down the room till he had mastered it; then said in 
 ordinary tones: 
 
 "Certainly, I know no more than you and others know — it was 
 
258 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 a gratuitous unpleasantness in you to say you did not doubt 
 inc. Why should you or anybody have doubted me?" 
 
 "Well, where is iiiy sister?" said Owen. 
 
 "Locked in the next room." 
 
 His own answer reminded Manston that Cytherea must by 
 some inscrutable means have had an inkling of the event. 
 
 Owen had g< »ne to the door of Cytherea's room. 
 
 "Cytherea, darlings — 'tis Owen," he said, outside the door. 
 A rustling of clothes, soft footsteps, and a voice saying from 
 the inside, "Is it reallv you, Owen — is it really?" 
 
 "It i.s." 
 
 "Oh, will you take care of me?" 
 
 "Always." 
 
 She unlocked the door and retreated again. Manston came 
 forward from the other room with a candle in his hand, as 
 Owen pushed open the door. 
 
 Her frightened eyes were unnaturally large, and shone like 
 stars in the darkness of the background, as the light fell upon 
 them. She leaped up to Owen in one bound, her small taper 
 fingers extended like the leaves of a lupine. Then she clasped 
 lier cold and trembling hands round his neck, and shivered. 
 
 The sight of her again kindled all Mansion's passions into 
 activity. "She shall not go with you," he said firmly, and 
 stepping a pace or two closer, "unless you prove that she is not 
 my wife; and you can't do it!" 
 
 "This is proof," said Owen, holding up the paper. 
 
 "Xo proof at all!" said Manston hotly. " 'Tis not a death- 
 bed confession, and those are the only tilings of the kind held 
 as good evidence." 
 
 "Send for a lawyer," Owen returned, "and let him U'll us the 
 proper course to adopt." 
 
 "Never mind the law — let me go with Owen!" cried Cythe- 
 rea, still holding on to him. "You will let me go with him. 
 won't you, sir?" she said, turning appealingly to ^Ianston. 
 
 "We'll have it all right and sfjuare," said Manston, with 
 more quietness. "I have no objection to your brother sending 
 for a lawyer if he wants to." 
 
 It was getting on for t\velvc o'clock, but the proprietor of 
 the hotel liad not yet gone to bed on account of the mystery 
 on the first floor, wb.ich was an occurrence unusual in the 
 quiet family lodging. Owen looked over the banisters and saw 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 259 
 
 him standing in the hall. It struck Graye that the wisest 
 course would be to take the landlord to a certain extent into 
 their confidence, appeal to his honor as a gentleman, and so on, 
 in order to acquire the information he wanted, and also to pre- 
 vent the episode of the evening from becoming a public piece 
 of news. He called the landlord up to where they stood, and 
 told him the main facts of the story. 
 
 The landlord was fortunately a quiet, prejudiced man, and 
 a meditative smoker. 
 
 "I know the very man you want to see — the very man," 
 he said, looking into the extreme center of the candle-flame. 
 "Sharp as a needle, and not over rich. Timms will put you all 
 straight in no time — trust Timms for that." 
 
 "He's in bed by this time, for certain," said Owen. 
 
 "Never mind that — Timms knows me, I know him. He'll 
 oblige me as a personal favor. Wait here a bit. Perhaps, too, 
 he's up at some party or another — he's a nice jovial fellow, 
 sharp as a needle too ; mind you, sharp as a needle too." 
 
 He went downstairs, put on his overcoat, and left the house, 
 the three persons most concerned entering the room, and 
 standing motionless, awkward, and silent in the midst of it. 
 Cytherea pictured to herself the long weary minutes she would 
 have to stand there, v/hile a sleepy man could be prepared for 
 consultation, till the constraint between them seemed unen- 
 durable to her — she could never last out the time. Owen was 
 annoyed that Alanston had not quietly arranged with him at 
 once; Manston at Owen's homeliness of idea in proposing to 
 send for an attorney, as if he would be a touchstone of infallible 
 proof. 
 
 Reflection was cut short by the approach of footsteps, and in 
 a few moments the proprietor of the hotel entered, introducing 
 his friend. "Mr. Timms has not been in bed," he said; "he had 
 just returned from dining with a few friends, so there's no 
 trouble given. To save time I explained the matter as we came 
 along." 
 
 It occurred to Owen and iManston both that they might get 
 a misty exposition of the law from Mr. Timnts, at that moment 
 of concluding dinner with a few friends. 
 
 "As far as I can see," said the lawyer, yawning, and turning 
 his vision inward by main force, "it is quite a matter for private 
 arrangement between the parties, whoever the parties are — at 
 
.h) DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 least at present. I speak more as a father than as a lawyer, it 
 is true, but let the younj; lady stay with her father, or guardian^ 
 safe out ol shame's way. until the mystery is sifted, whatever the 
 mystery is. ShouUl the evicknce prove to be false, or trumped 
 up by aii>body to get her away from you, lier husband, you 
 may sue them for the damages accruing from the delay." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Manston, who had completely recovered his 
 self-possession and connnon sense, "let it all be settled by 
 herself." Turning to Cytherea he whispered so softly that 
 I hven did not hear the words: 
 
 "Do yc»u wish to go back with your brother, dearest, and 
 leave me here miserable, and lonely, or will you stay witii me, 
 your own husband?" 
 
 "I'll go back with Owen." 
 
 "\'ery well." lie relincjuished his coaxing tone, and went on 
 ;ternly, "And remgmber this, Cytherea, I am as innocent of 
 deception in this thing as you are yourself. Do you believe 
 mc ?" 
 
 "I do." she said. 
 
 "I had no shadow of suspicion that my first wife lived. I 
 "'■n't think she does even now. Do you believe mc? " 
 
 "1 believe you," she said. 
 
 "And n nv, good-evening." he cotitinued. opening tin.' (i<"»r 
 and politely intimating to tlie three men standing by that there 
 was no further necessity for their remaining in his room. "In 
 three days I shall claim her." 
 
 The lawyer and the hotel-keeper retired first. Owen, gath- 
 ering up as much of his sister's clothing as lav about the rooni, 
 toc^k her upon his arm, and followed them. Edward, to whom 
 she owed everything, who had been left standing in the street 
 like a dog without a home, was utterly forgotten. Owen paid 
 the landU)rd and the lawyer for the trouble he had occasioned 
 them, looked to the j^acking, and went to the do >r. 
 
 A cab. which somewhat unaccotmtably was seen lingering in 
 front of the house, was called up, and Cytherea's luggage put 
 upoti it. 
 
 "Do you knrfw of any hotel near the station that is open for 
 night arrivals?" Oweit inquired of the driver. .» 
 
 "A place has been bespoken for you, sir, at the White l^ni- 
 corn — and the gentleman wished me to give you thi>." 
 
 "Bespoken by Springrove, who ordered the cab, of cotU'^c," 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 261 
 
 said Owen to himself. By the Hght of the street lamp he read 
 these lines, hurriedly traced in pencil : 
 
 "I have gone home by the mail train. It is better for all 
 parties that I should be out of the way. Tell Cytherea that T 
 apol3gize for having caused her such unnecessary pain, as it 
 seems 1 did. But it cannot be helped now. 
 
 "E. S." 
 
 Owen handed his sister into the vehicle, and told the cabman 
 to drive on. 
 
 "Poor Springrove — I think we have served him rather 
 badly," he said to Cytherea, repeating the words of the note to 
 her. 
 
 A thrill of pleasure passed through her bosom as she listened 
 to them. They were the genuine reproach of a lover to his 
 mistress ; the trifling coldness of her answer to him would have 
 been noticed by no man who was only a friend. But in enter- 
 taining that sweet thought, she had forgotten herself and her 
 position for the instant. 
 
 Was she still jNIanston's wife — that was the terrible suppo- 
 sition, and her future seemed still a possible misery to her. 
 For, on account of the late jarring accident, a life with j\Ian- 
 ston, which would otherwise have been only a sadness, must 
 become a burden of unutterable sorrow. 
 
 Then she thought of the misrepresentation and scandal that 
 would ensue if she were no wife. One cause for thankfulness 
 accompanied the reflection: Edward knew the truth. 
 
 They soon reached the quiet old inn which had been selected 
 for them by the forethought of the man who loved her well. 
 Here they installed themselves for the night, arranging to go to 
 Creston by the first train the next day. 
 
 At this hour Edward Springrove was fast approaching his 
 native county on the wheels of the night mail. 
 
CHAPTER XI\'. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF FIVE WEEKS. 
 § I. From tlw sixth to the thirtt-rnth of Janiuiry. 
 
 Mansion had evidently resolved to do nothing in a hurry. 
 
 I "his much was plain, that his earnest desire and intention 
 was to rai.se in Cythcrea's bosom no feelings of permanent 
 aversion to him. The instant after the first burst of disappoint- 
 ment had escaped him in the hotel at Southampton, he had 
 seen how far better it would be to lose her presence for a week 
 than her respect forever. 
 
 "She shall be mine; I will claim the young thing yet," he 
 insisted. And then he seemed to reason over methods for 
 compassing that object, which, to all those who w-ere in any 
 degree acquainted with the recent event, appeared the least 
 likely of possible contingencies. 
 
 Me returned to Knapwater late the next day, and was pre- 
 paring to call on Miss Aldclyffe, when the conclusion forced 
 it.sclf upon him that nothing would be gained by such a step. 
 No; every action of his should be done openly — even relig- 
 iously. At least he called on the rector, and stated this t.) be 
 his resolve. 
 
 "Certainly." said Mr. Raunham. "it is best to proceed can- 
 didly an<l fairly, or undue suspicion may fall on you. You 
 should, in my opinion, take active steps at once." 
 
 "1 will do the utmost that lies in my power to clear \\\) the 
 mystery, and silence the hubbub of gossip that has been set 
 goitig about me. But what can I do? They say that the man 
 who comes first in the chain of inquiry is not to be found — I 
 mean the porter." 
 
 "I am sorry to say that he is not. When I returned from the 
 station last night, after seeing Owen Grave off. I went again 
 to the cottage whore he has been lodging, to get more intelli- 
 gence, as I thourht. He was not there. He had gone c^ut at 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 263 
 
 dusk, saying he would be back soon. But he has not come 
 back yet." 
 
 "I rather doubt if we shall see him again." 
 
 "Had I known of this, I would have done what in my flurry 
 I did not think of doing — set a watch upon him. But why not 
 advertise for your missing wife as a preliminary, consulting 
 your solicitor in the meantime." 
 
 "Advertise. I'll think about it," said Manston, lingering on 
 the word as he pronounced it. "Yes, that seems a right thing 
 — quite a right thing." 
 
 He went home and remained moodily indoors all the next 
 day and the next — for nearly a week, in short. Then, one even- 
 ing at dusk, he went out with an uncertain air as to the direction 
 of his walk, which resulted, however, in leading him again t3 the 
 rectory. 
 
 He saw Mr. Raunham. "Have you done anything yet?" the 
 rector inquired. 
 
 "No — I have not," said Manston absently. "But I am 
 going to set about it." He hesitated, as if ashamed of some 
 weakness he was about to betray. "My object in calling was 
 to ask if you had heard any tidings from Creston of my — 
 Cytherea. You used to speak of her as one you were interested 
 in." 
 
 There was, at any rate, real sadness in Manston's tone 
 now, and the rector paused to weigh his words ere he replied: 
 
 "I have not heard directly from her," he said gently. "But 
 her brother has communicated with some people in the 
 parish — " 
 
 "The Springroves, I suppose," said Manston gloomily. 
 
 "Yes; and they tell me that she is very ill, and I am sorry 
 to say, likely to be for some days." 
 
 "Surely, surely, I must go and see her!" ]^\Ianston cried. 
 
 "I would advise you not to go," said Raunham. "But do this 
 instead — be as quick as you can in making a movement toward 
 ascertaining the truth as regards the existence of your wife. 
 You see, Mr. Alanston, an out-stc[) place like this is not like a 
 city, and there is nobody to busy himself for the good of the 
 community; while poor Cytherea and her brother are socially 
 too dependent to be able to make stir in the matter, which is a 
 greater reason still why you should be disinterestedly prompt." 
 
 The steward murmured an assent. Still there was the same 
 
2G4 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 indecision — not the indecision of weakness — the indecision of 
 conscious pcr|)lcxity. 
 
 On Mansion's return from this interview at the rectory, he 
 passed the door of the Traveler's Rest Inn. Finding he had 
 no Hpht for his cigar, and it being three-cjuarters of a mile to 
 his residence in the park, he entered the tavern to get one. 
 Xob )dy was in the outer portion of the front room where Man- 
 sion stood, but a space round the fire was screened off from 
 the remainder, and inside the high oak settle, forming a part of 
 tlie screen, he heard voices conversing. The speakers had uol 
 noticed his footsteps, and continued their discourse. 
 
 One of the two he recognized as a well-known night poacher, 
 the man who had met him with tidings of his wife's death on the 
 evening of the conflagration. The other seemed to be a 
 stranger fallowing the same mode of life. The conversation 
 was carried on in the emphatic and confidential tone of men 
 who are slightly intoxicated. 
 
 What the steward heard was enough, and more than enough, 
 to lead him to forget or renounce his motive in entering. The 
 efi'ect upon him was strange and strong. His first object 
 seemed to be to escape from the house again without being seen 
 or heard. 
 
 Having accomplished this he went in at the park gate, and 
 strode off umler the trees to the Old House. There sitting down 
 by the fire, and burying himself in reflection, he allowed the 
 minutes to pass by unheeded. First the candle burned down in 
 ii< .socket and stunk: he did not notice it. Then the fire went 
 
 It: he did not see it. His feet grew cold: still he thought on. 
 
 It may be remarked that a latly, a year and a quarter before 
 this time, had, under the same conditions — an unrestricted 
 Miental absoii^tion — shown nearly the same peculiarities as this 
 man evinced now. The lady was Miss Aldclyffe. 
 
 It was half-past twelve when Mansion moved, as if he had 
 come to a determination. 
 
 The first thing he did the next morning was to call at Knap- 
 water House: where he found that Miss .\ldclyfFe was not well 
 enough to see him. She had been ailing from slight in- 
 ternal hemorrhage ever since the confession of the porter Chin- 
 ney. Apparently not much aggrieved at the denial, he shortly 
 nftcrward went to the railway station and took his departure 
 
 T London, leaving a letter for Miss .\ldclyffe, staling the 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 265 
 
 rea&on of his journey thither — to recover traces of his missing 
 wife. 
 
 During the remainder of the week paragraphs appeared in 
 the local and other newspapers, drawing attention to the facts 
 of this singular case. The writers, with scarcely an exception, 
 dwelt forcibly upon a feature which had at first escaped the 
 observation of the villagers, including Mr. Raunham — that if 
 the announcement of the man Chinney was true, it seemed 
 extremely probable that Mrs. Manston left her watch and keys 
 behind on purpose to blind people as to her escape; and that 
 therefore she would not now let herself be discovered, unless a 
 strong pressure were put upon her. The writers added 
 that the police were on the track of the porter, who very possi- 
 bly had absconded in the fear that his reticence was criminal, 
 and that Mr. Manston, the husband, was with praiseworthy 
 energy making every effort to clear the whole matter up. 
 
 § 2. Froyn the eighteenth to the end of January. 
 
 Five days from the time of his departure, Manston returned 
 from London and Liverpool, looking very fatigued and 
 thoughtful. He explained to the rector and others of his 
 acquaintance that all the inquiries he had made at his wife's old 
 lodgings and his own had been totally barren of results. 
 
 But he seemed inclined to push the affair to a clear conclu- 
 sion now that he had commenced. After the lapse of another 
 day or two he proceeded to fulfill his promise to the rector, and 
 advertised for the missing woman in three of the London 
 papers, the "Times," the "Daily Telegraph," and the "Standard." 
 The advertisement was a carefully considered and even attract- 
 ive effusion, calculated to win the heart, or at least the under- 
 standing, of any woman who had a spark of her own nature 
 left in her. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 Three days later he repeated the experiment; with the same 
 result as before. 
 
 "I cannot try any further," said Manston speciously to tl;e 
 rector, his sole auditor throughout the proceedings. "2\fr. 
 Raunham, Til tell you the truth plainly: I don't love her; I 
 do love Cytherea, and the whoie of this business of searching 
 
L v; DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 for tlic other woman goes altogether against me. 1 hope to God 
 I shall never sec her again." 
 
 '■Hut you will do your duty at least?" said Mr. Raunham. 
 
 *'I have done it," said Manston. "If ever a man on the lace 
 of this earth has done his duty toward an absent wife, I have 
 toward her — living or dead — at least," he added, correcting him- 
 self, "since I have lived at Knapwater. I neglected her before 
 that time — I own that, as I have owned it before." 
 
 "I should, if I were you, adopt other means to get tidings 
 of her if advertising fails, in spite of my feelings," said the rector 
 em[)hatically. "But at any rate try advertising once more. 
 There's a satisfaction in having made an attempt three several 
 times." 
 
 When Manston had left the study, the rector stood looking 
 at the fire for a considerable length of time, lost in profound 
 reflection. He went to his private diary, and after many 
 l)auses, which he varied only by dii)ping his pen. letting it dry, 
 v.iping it on his sleeve, and then dipping it again, he took the 
 following note of events: 
 
 "January 25. — Mr. Manston has just seen mc for the third 
 time on the subject of his lost wife. There have been these 
 peculiarities attending the three interviews: 
 
 "The first. My visitor, while expressing by words his great 
 anxiety to do everything for her recovery, showed plainly by 
 liis bearing that he was convinced he sliould never see her 
 again. 
 
 "The second. He had left off feigning anxiety to do rightly 
 by his first wife, and honestly asked after Cytherea's welfare. 
 
 "The third (and most remarkable). He seemed to have lost 
 all consistency. While expressing his love for Cytherea (which 
 certainly is strong) and evincing the usual indifference to the 
 first Mrs. Manston 's fate, he was unable to conceal the intensity 
 of his eagerness for me to advise him to advertise again for 
 her." 
 
 A week after the second, the third advertisement was inserted. 
 A paragraph was attached, which stated that this would be the 
 last time the announcement would appear. 
 
 §3. Thr first of February. 
 
 .\t this, the eleventh hour, the postman brought a letter for 
 Mr.nston. directed in a woman's liand. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 26Y 
 
 A bachelor friend of the steward's, Mr. Dickson by name, 
 who was somewhat of a chatterer— //<v///j- rimamm — and who 
 boasted of an endless string of acquaintances, had come over 
 from Froominster the preceding day by invitation — an invita- 
 tion which had been a pleasant surprise to Dickson himself, 
 insomuch that Manston, as a rule, voted him a bore almost to 
 his face. He had stayed over the night and was sitting at 
 breakfast with his host w^ien the important missive arrived. 
 
 Manston did not attempt to conceal the subject of the letter, 
 or the name of the writer. First glancing the pages through 
 he read aloud as follows: 
 
 "'My Husband: 
 
 "'I implore your forgiveness. 
 
 " 'During the last thirteen months I have repeated to myself 
 a hundred times that you should never discover what I volun- 
 tarily tell you now, namely, that I am alive and in perfect 
 health. 
 
 " 'I have seen all your advertisements. Nothing but your 
 persistence has won me round. Surely, I thought, he must love 
 me still. Why else should he try to win back a woman who, 
 faithful unto death as she will be, can, in a social sense, aid him 
 toward acquiring nothing? — rather the reverse, indeed. 
 
 " 'You yourself state my own mind — that the only grounds 
 upon which we can meet and live together, with a reasonable 
 hope of happiness, must be a mutual consent to bury in oblivion 
 all past differences. I heartily and willingly forget everything 
 — and forgive everything. You will do the same, as yo,ur 
 actions show. 
 
 " 'There will be plenty of opportunity for me to explain the 
 few facts relating to my escape on the night of the fire. I will 
 only give the heads in this hurried note. I was grieved at your 
 not coming to fetch me, more grieved at your absence from the 
 station, most of all by your absence from home. On my 
 journey to the inn I writhed under a passionate sense of wrong 
 done me. When I had been shown to my room I waited and 
 hoped for you until the landlord had gone upstairs to bed. 
 I still found that you did not come, and then I finally made up 
 my mind to leave. I had half undressed, but I put on my 
 things again, forgetting my watch (and I suppose dropping my 
 
268 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 keys, though I am not sure where) in my hurry, and stepped out 
 of the house. The — ' " 
 
 "Well, that's a rum story," said Mr. Uickson, interrupting. 
 
 "What's a rum story?" said Manston hastily, and flushing in 
 the face. 
 
 "Forgetting her watch and dropping her keys in her hurry." 
 
 "I don't sec anything particularly wonderful in it. Any 
 woman might do such a thing." 
 
 "Any woman might if escaping from fire or shipwreck, or 
 any such immediate danger. But it seems incomprehensible 
 to me that any woman in her senses, who quietly decides to 
 leave a house, should be so forgetful." 
 
 "All that is required to reconcile your seeming with her facts 
 is to assume that she was not in her senses, for that's what 
 she did plainly, or how could the things have been found there? 
 Besides, she's truthful enough." He spoke eagerly and per- 
 emptorily. 
 
 "Ves, ves. I know that. I merelv meant that it seemed rather 
 odd." 
 
 "Oh, yes." Manston read on: 
 
 " ' and stepped out of the house. The rubbish-heap wns 
 
 burning up brightly, but the thought that the house was in 
 danger did not strike me; I did not consider that it might be 
 thatched. 
 
 " T idled in the lane beliind the wood till the last down-train 
 had come in, not being in a mood to face strangers. Wliile I 
 was there the fire broke out, and this perplexed me still m*ire. 
 However, I was still determined not to stay in the place. I 
 went to the railway station, which was now quiet, and iiKiuired 
 of the solitary man on duty there concerning the trains. It 
 was not till I left the man that I saw the effect the fire might 
 have on my history. I considered also, though not in any 
 detailed manner, that the event, by attracting the attention of 
 the village to my former abode, might set people on my track 
 should they dcnibt my death, and a sudden dread of having 
 to go back again to Knapwater — a place which had seemed 
 inimical to me from first to last — prompted me to run back and 
 liribe the porter to secrecy. I then walked on to Froominster. 
 lingering about the outskirts of the town till the morning train 
 came in. when I proceeded by it to London, and then took these 
 lodgings, where I have been supporting myself ever since by 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 269 
 
 needlework, endeavoring to save enough money to pay my 
 passage home to America, but making melancholy progress in 
 my attempt. However, all that is changed — can I be other- 
 wise than happy at it? Of course not. I am happy. Tell me 
 what I am to do, and 
 
 " 'Believe me still to be, 
 
 " 'Your faithful wife, 
 
 " 'Eunice. 
 " 'My name here is (as before) : 
 
 " 'Mrs. Rondley, and my address, 
 " '79 Addington Street, 
 
 " 'Lambeth.' " 
 
 The name and address were written on a separate slip of 
 paper. 
 
 "So it's to be all right at last, then," said Manston's friend. 
 "But after all there's another woman in the case. You don"t 
 seem very sorry for the little thing who is put to such distress 
 by this turn of affairs? I wonder you can let her go so coolly." 
 
 The speaker was looking out between the mullions of the 
 window — noticing that some of the lights vcere glazed in 
 lozenges, some in squares — as he said the words, otherwise he 
 would have seen the passionate expression of agonized hope- 
 lessness that flitted across the steward's countenance when the 
 remark was made. He did not see it, and Mansion answered 
 after a short intei-val. The way in which he spoke of the young 
 girl who had believed herself his wife, whom, a few short days 
 ago, he had openly idolized, and whom, in his secret heart, he 
 idolized still, as far as such a form of love was compatible with 
 his natiu'e, showed, that from policy or otherwise, he meant 
 to act up to the requirements of the position into which fate 
 appeared determined to drive him. 
 
 "That's neither here nor there," he said; "it is a point of 
 honor to do as I am doing, and there's an end of it." 
 
 "Yes. Only I thought you used not to care overmuch about 
 your first bargain." 
 
 "I certainly did not at one time. One is apt to feel rather 
 weary of wives when they are so devilish civil under all aspects, 
 as she used to be. But anything for a change — Abigail is 
 lost, but Michal is recovered. You would hardly believe it, 
 but she seems in fancy to be quite another bride — in fact almost 
 
 18 
 
270 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 as if she had really risen from the dead, instead of having only 
 done so virtnally." 
 
 "You let the young pink one know that the other has come 
 or is coming?" 
 
 " C«/ bono /" The steward meditated critically, showing a 
 portion of his intensely white and regular teeth within the rub\ 
 lips. 
 
 "I cannot say anything to her that will do any good." li ■ 
 resumed. "It would be awkward — cither seeing or communi- 
 cating with her again. The best i)lan to adopt will be to let 
 matters take their course — she'll find it all out soon enough." 
 
 Manston found himself alone a few minutes later. He buried 
 his face in his hands, and murmured, "Oh, my lost one — oh, my 
 Cytherea! That it shoukl come to this is hard for me! Ti? 
 now all darkness — 'a land of darkness as darkness itself; an<l 
 of the shadow of death without any order, and where the light 
 is as darkness.' " 
 
 Yes, the artificial bearing which this extraordinary man had 
 adopted before strangers ever since he had o\'erheard the con- 
 versation at the inn left him now, and he mourned for Cytherea 
 aloud. 
 
 § 4. T/ic ixi'clfih of February. 
 
 Knapwater Park is the picture — at eleven o'clock on a 
 muddy, quiet, hazy, but bright morning — a morning without 
 any blue sky, and without any shadows, the earth being en- 
 livened and lit up rather by the si)irit of an invisil)le sun than 
 by its bodily presence. 
 
 The local hunt had met for the day's sport on the open space 
 of ground immediately in front of the steward's residence — 
 called in the list of aj^pointments, "Old House, Knapwater" — 
 the meet being here once every season, for the pleasure of Miss 
 AldclyfFe and her friends. 
 
 Leaning out from, one of the first-floor windows, and sur- 
 veying with the keenest interest the lively picture of red and 
 black jackets, rich-colored horses, and sparkling bits and spurs. 
 was the returned and long-lost woman. Mrs. Manston. 
 
 The eyes of those forming the brilliant group were occasion- 
 ally turned toward her, showing plainly that her adventures 
 were the subject of conversation equally with or more than the 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 271 
 
 chances of the coming- day. She did not flush beneath their 
 scrutiny; on the contrary, she seemed rather to enjoy it, lier 
 eyes being kindled with a Hght of contented exultation, sub- 
 dued to square with the circumstances of her matronly position. 
 
 She was, from the distance from which they surveyed her, 
 an attractive woman — comely as the tents of Kedar. But to a 
 close observer it was palpable enough that God did not do all. 
 Appearing at least seven years older than Cytherea, she was 
 probably her senior by double the number, the artificial means 
 employed to heighten the natural good appearance of her face 
 being very cleverly applied. Her form was full and round, its 
 voluptuous maturity standing out in strong contrast to the 
 memory of Cytherea's lissom girlishness. 
 
 It seems to be an almost universal rule that a woman who 
 once has courted, or who eventually will court, the society of 
 men on terms dangerous to her honor, cannot refrain from 
 flinging the meaning glance whenever the moment arrives ia 
 which the glance is strongly asked for, even if her life and whole 
 future depended upon that moment's abstinence. 
 
 Had a cautious, uxorious husband seen in his wife's coun- 
 tenance what might now have been seen in this dark-eyed 
 woman's as she caught a stray glance of flirtation from one or 
 other of the red-jacketed gallants outside, he would have passed 
 many days in agony of restless jealousy and doubt. But 
 Alanston was not such a husband, and he was, moreover, 
 calmly attending to his business at the other end of the manor. 
 
 The steward had fetched home his wife in the most matter- 
 of-fact way a few days earlier, walking round the village witli 
 her the very next morning — at once putting an end, by this 
 simple solution, to all the riddling inquiries and surmises that 
 were rank in the village and its neighborhood. Some men 
 said that this woman was as far inferior to Cytherea as earth to 
 heaven; others, older and sagcr, thought Manston better off 
 with such a wife than he would have been w^ith one of Cy- 
 therea's youthful impulses and inexperience in household man- 
 agement. All felt their curiosity dying out of them. It w^as 
 the same in Carriford as in other parts of the world — imme- 
 diately circumstantial evidence became exchanged for direct, 
 the loungers in court yawned, gave a final surve}', and turned 
 away to a subject which would afford more scope for specu- 
 lation. 
 
 18 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF THREE WEEKS. 
 § I. From the twelfth of Ffbniary to the second of March. 
 
 Owen Grave's recovery from the illness that had incapacitated 
 him for so long^ a lime was. professionally, the tlawn of a 
 brigfhter prospect for him in every direction, though the change 
 was at first very gradual, and his movements and efforts were 
 little more than mechanical. With the lengthening of the days, 
 and the revival of building operations for the forthcoming 
 season, he saw himself, for the first time, on a road which, 
 pursued with care, would probably lead to a comfortable income 
 at some future day. But he was still verv low down the hill as 
 yet. 
 
 The first undertaking intrusted to him in the new year com- 
 menced about a month after his return from Southampton. 
 Mr. Gradficld had come back to him in the wake of his restored 
 health, and otTered him the superintendence, as clerk of works, 
 of a new church which was to be built at the village of Pal- 
 church, ten or twelve miles north of Creston, and about half 
 that distance from Carriford. 
 
 'T am now being paid at the rate of one hundred and twenty 
 pounds a year." he said to his sister in a burst of thankfulness, 
 "and you shall never. Cytherca. be at any tyrannous lady's beck 
 and call again as long as I live. Xever pine or think about 
 what has happened, dear; it's no disgrace to you. Cheer up — 
 you'll be somebody's happy wife yet." 
 
 He did not say Edward Springrove's. for greatly to his dis- 
 appointment a report had reached his ears that the friend to 
 whom Cytherea owed so much had 1)een about to pack up his 
 things and sail for Australia. However, this was before the 
 uncertainty concerning Mrs. Mansion's existence had been 
 dispersed by her return, a phenomenon that altered the cloudy 
 relationship in which Cytherea had lately been standing toward 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 273 
 
 her old lover to one of distinctiveness; which result would have 
 been delightful, but for circumstances about to be mentioned. 
 
 Cytherea was still pale from her recent illness, and still 
 greatly dejected. Until the news of Mrs. Mansion's return 
 had reached them, she had kept herself closely shut up during 
 the daytime, never venturing forth except at night. Sleeping 
 and waking she had been in perpetual dread lest she should 
 still be claimed by a man whom, only a few weeks earlier, she 
 had regarded in the light of a future husband with quiet assent, 
 not unmixed with cheerfulness. 
 
 But the removal of the uneasiness in this direction — by Mrs. 
 Manston's arrival, and her own consequent freedom — had been 
 the imposition of pain in another. Utterly factitious details of 
 the finding of Cytherea and Manston had been invented and 
 circulated, unavoidably reaching her ears in the course of 
 time. Thus the freedom brought no happiness, and it seemed 
 well-nigh impossible that she could ever again show herself 
 the sparkling creature she once had been: 
 
 "Apt to entice a deity." 
 
 On this account, and for the first time in his life, Owen made 
 a point of concealing from her the real state of his feelings with 
 regard to the unhappy transaction. He writhed in secret under 
 the humiliation to which they had been subjected, till the re- 
 sentment it gave rise to, and for which there was no vent, was 
 sometimes beyond endurance; it induced a mood that did 
 serious damage to the material and plodding perseverance 
 necessary if he would secure permanently the comforts of a 
 home for them. 
 
 They gave up their lodgings at Creston, and went to Pal- 
 church as soon as the work commenced. 
 
 Here they were domiciled in one-half of an old farm-house, 
 standing close beneath the ivy-covered church tower (which 
 was all that was to remain of the original structure). The long 
 steep roof of this picturesque dwelling sloped nearly down to 
 the ground, the old tiles that covered it being overgrown with 
 rich olive-hued moss. New red tiles in twos and threes had 
 been used in patching the holes wrought by decay, lighting up 
 the whole harmonious surface with dots of brilliant scarlet. 
 
 The chief internal features of this snug abode were a wide 
 
274 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 fireplace, enormous cupboards, a brown settle, and several 
 sketches on the wood mantel, done in outline with the point of 
 a hot poker — the subjects mainly consisting of old men walkinj^ 
 painfully erect, with a curly-tailed dog behind. 
 
 After a week or two of residence in Palchurch. and rambles 
 amid the (juaint scener>' circumscribing it, a tranquillity began 
 to sprcatl itself thr.^ugh the mind of the maiden, which Graye 
 hoped would be a preface to her complete restoration, .'^hc felt 
 ready and willing to live the whole remainder of her days in 
 the retirement of their present quarters; she began to sing about 
 the house in low tremulous snatches: 
 
 " — 1 said. If there's peace to bo found in the world, 
 A heart that is humble may hope for it there." 
 
 §2. The third of March. 
 
 Her convalescence had arrived at this point on a certain 
 evening toward the end of the winter, when Owen had come in 
 from the building hard by. and was changing his muddy boots 
 for slippers, previously to sitting down to toast and tea. 
 
 A prolonged tiiough quiet knocking came to the door. 
 
 The only person who ever knocked at their door in that way 
 was the new vicar, the prime mover in the church building. 
 l)Ut he was that evening dining with the squire. 
 
 Cytherea was uneasy at the sound — she did not know why, 
 unless it was because her nerves were weakened by the sickness 
 she had undergone. Instead of opening the door she ran out 
 of the room and upstairs. 
 
 "What nonsense, Cytherea," said her brother, going to the 
 do<ir. 
 
 Edward Springrove stood in the gray light outside. 
 
 "Capital — not gone to Australia, and not going of course!" 
 cried Owen. "W'hat's the use of going to such a place as that — 
 T never believed that you would." 
 
 "I am going back to London again to-nmrrow." said 
 Springrove, and I called to say a word before going. Wiiere 
 
 IS 
 
 "She has just run upstairs. Come in — never mind scraping 
 your shoes — we arc regular cottagers now; stone floor, }'awn- 
 ing chimnev-comcr. and all. you see." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 275 
 
 "Mrs. Manston came," said Edward, awkwardly, when he 
 had sat down in the chimney-corner by preference. 
 
 "Yes." At mention of one of his skeletons Owen lost his 
 blitheness at once, and fell into a reverie. 
 
 "The history of her escape is very simple." 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "You know I always had wondered, when my father was 
 telling any of the circumstances of the fire to me, how it could 
 be that a woman should sleep so soundly as to be unaware of 
 her horrid position till it was too late even to give shout or 
 sound of any kind." 
 
 "Well, I think that would have been possible, considering 
 her long wearisome journey. People have often been suffo- 
 cated in their beds before they awake. But it was hardly likely 
 a body would be completely burned to ashes as this was as- 
 sumed to be, though nobody seemed to see it at the time. And 
 how positive the surgeon was, too, about those bits of bone. 
 Why he should have been so, nobody can tell. I cannot help 
 saying that if it has ever been possible to find pure stupidity 
 incarnate, it was in that jury in Carriford. There existed in the 
 mass the stupidity of twelve and not the penetration of one." 
 
 "Is she quite well?" said Springrove. 
 
 "Who? — oh, my sister, Cytherea. Thank you, nearly well, 
 now. I'll call her." 
 
 "Wait one minute. I have a word to say to you." 
 
 Owen sat down again. 
 
 "You know, without my saying it, that I love Cytherea as 
 dearly as ever. ... I think she loves me, too — does she 
 really?" 
 
 There was in Owen enough of that worldly policy on the 
 subject of matchmaking which naturally resides in the breasts 
 of parents and guardians, to give him a certain caution in reply- 
 ing, and, younger as he was by five years than Edward, it had 
 an odd effect. 
 
 "Well, she may possibly love you still," he said, as if rather 
 in doubt as to the truth of his words. 
 
 Springrove's countenance instantly saddened; he had ex- 
 pected a simple "Yes" at the very least. He continued in a tone 
 of greater depression. 
 
 "Supposing she does love me, would it be fair to you and to 
 her if I made her an offer of marriage, with these dreary condi- 
 
.70 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 tioiis attached — that we hvc for a few years on the narrowest 
 system, till a jjreat debt, which all honor and duty require me 
 to pay off, shall be paid? My father, by reason of the misfor- 
 tune that befell him, is under a pjeat obligation to Miss Ald- 
 clytTe. lie is gettinj:]^ old, and losing his energies. I am at- 
 tempting to work free of the burden. This makes my prospects 
 gloomy enough at present. 
 
 "But consider again," he went on. "Cytherca has been left 
 in a nameless and unsatisfactory, though innocent state, by 
 this unfortunate, and now void, marriage with Manston. A 
 marriage with me, though under the — materially — untoward 
 conditions I have mentioned, would make us happy; it would 
 give her a locus stamii. If she wished to be out of the sound 
 of her misfortunes we would go to another part of England — 
 emigrate — do anything." 
 
 "I'll call Cytherea," said Owen. "It is a matter which she 
 alone can settle." He did not speak warmly. His pride could 
 not endure the pity which Edward's visit and errand tacitly 
 implied. Yet, in the other affair, his heart went with Edward; 
 he was on the same beat for paying off old debts himself. 
 
 "Cythie, Mr. Springrove is here," he said, at the foot of the 
 staircase. 
 
 His sister descended the creaking old steps with a faltering 
 tread, and stood in the fire-light from the hearth. She extended 
 her hand to Springrove, welcoming him by a mere motion 
 of the lip, her eyes averted — a habit which had engendered 
 itself in her since the beginning of her illness and defamation. 
 Owen opened the door and went out. leaving the lovers alone. 
 It was the first time they had met since the memorable night 
 at Southampton. 
 
 "I will get a light," she said, with a little embarrassment. 
 
 "Xo — don't, please, Cytherea," said Edward softly. "Come 
 and sit down with me." 
 
 "Oh. yes. I ought to have asked you to." she returned timidly. 
 "Everybody sits in the chimney-corner in this parish. You sit 
 on that side. I'll sit here." 
 
 Two recesses — one on the right, one on the left hand — were 
 cut in the inside of the fireplace, and here they sat down facing 
 each other, on benches fitted to the recesses, the fire glowing on 
 the hearth between their feet. Its ruddy light shone on the 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 277 • 
 
 iinderslopes of their faces, and spread out over the floor of the 
 room with the low horizontality of the setting sun, giving to 
 every grain of sand and tumor in the paving a long shadow 
 toward the door. 
 
 Edward looked at his pale love through the thin azure twines 
 of smoke that went up like ringlets between them, and invested 
 her, as seen through its medium, with the shadowy appearance 
 of a phantom. Nothing is so potent for coaxing back the lost 
 eyes of a woman as a discreet silence in the man who has so 
 lost them — and thus the patient Edward coaxed hers. After 
 lingering on the hearth for half a minute, waiting in vain for 
 another word from him, they were lifted into his face. 
 
 He was ready primed to receive them. 
 
 "Cytherea, will you marry me?" he said. 
 
 He could not w^ait in his original position till the answer 
 came. Stepping across the front of the fire to her own side of 
 the chimney-corner, he reclined at her feet, and searched for 
 her hand. She continued in silence awhile. 
 
 "Edward, I can never be anybody's wife," she then said sadly, 
 and with firmness. 
 
 'Think of it in every light," he pleaded; "the light of love, 
 first. Then, when you have done that, see how wise a step it 
 would be. I can only offer you poverty as yet, but I want — I 
 do so long to secure you from the intrusion of that unpleasant 
 past, which will often and always be thrust before you as long 
 as you live the shrinking solitary life you do now — a life which 
 purity chooses, it may be ; but to the outside world it appears 
 like the enforced loneliness of neglect and scorn — and tongues 
 are busy inventing a reason for it which does not exist." 
 
 ''I know all about it," she said hastily; "and those are the 
 grounds of my refusal. You and Owen know the whole truth — 
 the two I love best on earth — and I am content. But the 
 scandal will be continually repeated, and I can never give any 
 one the opportunity of saying to you — that — your wife . . ." 
 She utterly broke down and wept hysterically. 
 
 "Don't, my own darling!" he entreated. "Don't, Cytherea!" 
 
 "Please to leave me — we will be friends, Edward — but don't 
 press me — my mind is made up — I cannot — I will not marry 
 you or any man under the present ambiguous circumstances — 
 never will I — I have said it: never!" 
 
 They were both silent. He lisdessly regarded the illuminated 
 
278 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 blackness overhead, where Inni; flakes of soot floated from the 
 sitles and bars of the chimney-throat like tattered banners in 
 ancient aisles: while throufi^h the sqnarc opening in the midst 
 one or twt) bright stars looked down npon them from the gray 
 March sky. The sight seemed to cheer him. 
 
 "At any rate you will love me?" he murnnired to her. 
 
 "Yes — always — forever and forever!" 
 
 He kissed her once, twice, three times, and aro.se to his feet, 
 slowly withdrawing himself from her side toward the door. 
 Cytherea remained with her gaze fixed on the fire. Edward 
 went out grieving, but hope was not extinguished even now. 
 
 He smelt the fragrance of a cigar, and immediately afterward 
 saw a small red star of fire against the darkness of the hedge. 
 Graye was pacing up and down the lane, smoking as he walked. 
 Springrove told him the result of the interview. 
 
 "You are a good fellow, Edward," he said; "but I think my 
 sister is right." 
 
 "I wish you would believe Manston a villain, as I do," said 
 Springrove. 
 
 "It would be absurtl of me to say tliat I like him now — family 
 feeling prevents it, Init 1 cannot in honesty say deliberately that 
 he is a bad man." 
 
 Edward could keep the secret of Manston's coercion of Miss 
 AldclyfTe in the matter of tiie houses a secret no longer. He 
 told Owen the whole story. 
 
 "That's one thing." he continued, "but not all. What do you 
 tliink of this — I have discovered that he went to Creston post- 
 office for a letter the day before the first advertisement for his 
 wife appeared in the papers. One was there for him. and it was 
 directed in his wife's handwriting, as I can prove. This was 
 not till after the marriage with Cytherea, it is true, but if (as it 
 seems to show) the advertising was a farce, there is a strong 
 presumption that the rest of the piece was." 
 
 Owen was too astonished to .«;peak. He dropped his cigar, 
 and fixed his eyes upon his companion. 
 
 "Collusion!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "With his first wife?" 
 
 "Ye.s — with his wife. I am firmly persuaded of it." 
 
 "What did vou discover?" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 279 
 
 "That he fetched from the postoflfice at Creston a letter from 
 her the day before the first advertisement appeared." 
 
 Graye was lost in a long consideration. "Ah!" he said, "it 
 would be difficult to prove anything of that sort now. The 
 writing could not be sworn to, and if he is guilty the letter is 
 destroyed." 
 
 "I have other suspicions — " 
 
 "Yes — as you said," interrupted Owen, who had not till now 
 been able to form the complicated set of ideas necessary for 
 picturing the position. "Yes, there is this to be remembered — 
 Cythcrea had been taken from him before that letter came — 
 and his knowledge of his wife's existence could not have 
 originated until after the wedding. I could have sworn he 
 believed her dead then. His manner was unmistakable." 
 
 "Well, I have other suspicions," repeated Edward; "and if I 
 only had the right — if I Avere her husband or brother, he should 
 be convicted of bigamy yet." 
 
 "The reproof was not needed," said Owen with a little bitter- 
 ness. "What can I do — a man with neither money nor friends 
 — while Manston has Miss AldclyfTe and all her fortune to back 
 him up? God only knows what lies between the mistress and 
 her steward, but since this has transpired — if it is true — I can 
 believe the connection to be even an unworthy one — a thing 
 I certainly never so much as owned to myself before." 
 
 §3. The fifth of March. 
 
 Edward's disclosure had the effect of directing Owen Graye's 
 thoughts into an entirely new and uncommon channel. 
 
 On the Monday after Springrove's visit Owen had walked 
 to the top of a hill in the neighborhood of Palchurch — a wild 
 hill that had no name, beside a barren down where it never 
 looked like summer. In the intensity of his meditations on 
 the ever-present subject he sat down on a weather-beaten 
 boundary-stone, gazing toward the distant valleys — seeing only 
 Manston's imagined form. 
 
 Had his defenseless sister been trifled with? that was the 
 question which affected him. Her refusal of Edward as a hus- 
 band was, he knew, dictated solely by a humiliated sense of 
 inadequacy to him in repute, and had not been formed till since 
 
2S0 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 the slanderous talc accountinj^ for her seclusion had been circu- 
 lated. Was it not true, as Edward had hinted, that he, her 
 brother, was neglecting his duty toward her in allowing Man- 
 ston to thrive unquestioned, while she was hiding her head for 
 no fault at all? 
 
 Was it possible that Manston was sensuous villain enough 
 to have contemplated at any moment before the marriage with 
 Cyiherea the return of his first wife, when he should have grown 
 weary uf his new toy? Had he believed that, by a skillful 
 manipulation of such circumstances as chance would throw in 
 his way, he could escape all suspicion of having known that 
 she lived? Only one fact within his own direct kncAvledgc 
 afforded the least ground for such a supposition. It was that, 
 jiossessed by a woman only in the humble and unprotected 
 station of a lady's hired companion, his sister's beauty, great 
 as it was, might scarcely have been sufficient to induce a selfish 
 man like Manston to make her his wife unless he had foreseen 
 the possibility of getting rid of her again. 
 
 "But for that stratagem of Manston's in relation to the Spring- 
 roves," Owen thought. "Cythic might now have been the liappy 
 wife of Edward. True, that he inlluenced Miss AldclylTe only 
 rests on Edward's suspicions, but the grounds are good — the 
 probability is strong." 
 
 He went indoors and questioned Cytherea. 
 
 "On the night of the fire, who first said that Mrs. Manston 
 was burned?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know who started the report." 
 
 "Was it Manston?" 
 
 "It was certainly not he. All doubt on the subject was re- 
 moved before he came to the spot — that I am certain of. 
 Everybody knew that she did not escape after the house was 
 on fire, and thus all overlooked the fact that she might have 
 left before — of course that would have seemed such an im- 
 probable thing for anybody to do." 
 
 "Yes, until the porter's story of her irritation and doubt as 
 to her course made it natural." 
 
 "What settled the matter at the inquest." said Cytherea. "was 
 Mr. Manston's eviilence that the watch was his wife's." 
 
 "He was sure of that, wasn't he?" 
 
 "I bclii-ve he said he was certain of it." 
 
 "It miuht have been hers — left behind in her perturbation, 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 281 
 
 as they say it was — impossible as that seems at first sight. 
 Yes — on the whole, he mig'ht have believed in her death." 
 
 "I know by several proofs that then, and at least for some 
 time after, he had no other thought than that she was dead. I 
 now think that before the porter's confession he knew some- 
 thing about her — though not that she lived." 
 
 "Why do you?" 
 
 "From what he said to me on the evening of the wedding- 
 day, when I had fastened myself in the room at the hotel, after 
 Edward's visit. He must have suspected that I knew some- 
 thing, for he was irritated, and in a passion of uneasy doubt. 
 He said, 'You don't suppose my first wife is come to light 
 again, madam, surely?' Directly he let the remark slip out he 
 seemed anxious to withdraw it." 
 
 "That's odd," said Owen. 
 
 "I thought it very odd." 
 
 "Still, we must remember he might only have hit upon the 
 thought by accident, in doubt as to your motive. Yes, the 
 great point to discover remains the same as ever — did he 
 doubt his first impression of her death before he married you. 
 I can't help thinking he did^ although he was so astounded at 
 our news that night. Edward swears he did." 
 
 "It was perhaps only a short time before," said Cytherea; 
 "when he could hardly recede from having me." 
 
 "Seasoning justice with mercy as usual, Cytherea. 'Tis un- 
 fair to yourself to talk like that. If I could only bring him to 
 ruin as a bigamist — supposing him to be one, I should die 
 happy. That's what we must find out by fair means or foul — 
 was he a willful bigamist?" 
 
 "It's no use trying, Owen. You would have to employ a 
 solicitor, and how can you do that?" 
 
 "I can't at all — I know that very well. But neither do I alto- 
 gether wish to at present — a lawyer must have a case — facts to 
 go upon, that means. Now they are scarce at present — as 
 scarce as money is with us, and till we have found more money 
 there is no hurry for a lawyer. Perhaps by the time we have the 
 facts we shall have the money. The only thing we lose in work- 
 ing alone in this way is time — not the issue: for the fruit that 
 one mind matures in a twelvemonth forms a more perfectly 
 organized whole than that of twelve minds in one month, 
 especially if the interests of the single one are vitally concerned, 
 
282 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 and those of the twelve are only hired. But there is not only 
 my mind available — you are a shrewd woman, Cythie, and 
 Edward is an earnest ally. Then, if we really get a sure footing 
 for a criminal prosecution, the crown will take up the case." 
 
 "I don't much care to press on in the matter," slie murmured. 
 "What good can it do us Owen, after all?" 
 
 "Selfishly speaking, it will be this good — that all the facts 
 of your journey to Southampton will become known, and the 
 scandal will die. Besides, Manston will have to suffer — it's an 
 act of justice to you and to other women, antl to Edward 
 Springrove." 
 
 He now thought it necessary to tell her of the real nature 
 of the Springroves' obligation to Miss Aldclyffe — and their 
 nearly certain knowledge that Manston was the prime mover 
 in effecting their embarrassment. Her face flushed as she 
 listened. 
 
 "And now," he said, "our first undertaking is to find out 
 where Mrs. Manston lived during the separation; next, when 
 the first communication passed between them after the fire." 
 
 "If we only had Miss Aldclyffe's countenance and assistance 
 as I used to have them." Cytherea returned, "how strong we 
 should be. Oh, what power is it that he exercises over her, 
 swaying her just as he wishes! She loves me now. Mrs. Mor- 
 ris in her letter sakl that Miss Aldclyft"e prayed for me — yes. 
 she heard her praying for me. and crying. Miss Aldclyffe did 
 not mind an old friend like Mrs. Morris knowing it either. Yet 
 in opposition to this, notice her dead silence and inaction 
 throughout this proceeding." 
 
 "It is a mystery; but never mind that now." said Owen 
 impressively. "About where Mrs. Manston has been living. 
 We must get this part of it first — leam the place of her stay in 
 the early stage of their separation, during the period of Man- 
 sion's arrival here and so on. for that was where she was first 
 communicated with on the subject of coming to Knapwater, 
 before the fire; and that address, too, was her point of de- 
 parture when she came to her husband by stealth in the night 
 — you kn.)w — the time I visited you in the evening and went 
 home early in the morning, and it was foimd that he had been 
 visited, too. Ah! couldn't we inquire of Mr.s. Leat. who keeps 
 the postoffice at Carriford, if she remembers where the letters 
 to Mrs. Manston were directed?" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 283 
 
 "He never posted his letters to her in the parish — it was 
 remarked at the time. I was thinking- if something relating 
 to her address might not be found in the report of the 'Froo- 
 minster Chronicle' of the date. Some facts about the inquest 
 were given in the papers to a certainty." 
 
 Her brother caught eagerly at the suggestion. 
 
 "Who has a file of the 'Chronicle?' " he said. 
 
 "Mr. Raunham used to file them," said Cytherea. "He was 
 rather friendly disposed toward me, too." 
 
 Owen could not on any consideration escape from his attend- 
 ance at the church-building till Saturday evening; and thus it 
 became necessary, unless they actually wasted time, that Cy- 
 therea herself should assist. "I act under your orders, Owen," 
 she said. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF ONE WEEK. 
 § I. AfiiriJt the sixth. 
 
 The next morning the opening move of tlie game was made. 
 Cythcrea, under cover of a thick veil, walked to Froominster 
 railway station and took the train for Carriford Road. It was 
 with a renewed sense of depres.'^ion that she saw again the objects 
 which had become familiar to her eye during her sojourn under 
 Mi.^s Aldclyffe's roof — the outline of the mills, the meadow 
 streams, the old park trees. She hastened by a lonely path to 
 the rectory house, and asked if Mr. Raunham was at imme. 
 
 Now the rector, though a solitary bachelor, was as gallant and 
 c(nirteous to womankind as an ancient Iberian; and moreover: 
 he was Cythcrea's friend in particular, to an extent far greater 
 than she had ever surmised. Rarely visiting her relative. Miss 
 Aldclyffe, except on parish matters, more rarely still being called 
 uj^on by Miss Aldclyffe, Cytherea had learned very little of him 
 while she lived at Knapwater. The relationship was on the 
 paternal side, and for this branch of her family tlie lady of the 
 estate had never evinced much sympathy. 
 
 In looking back upon our line of descent it is an instinct 
 with us to feel that all our vitality was drawn from the richer 
 side of any unequal marriage in the chain. 
 
 Since the death of the old captain, the rector's bearing in 
 Knapwater House had been almost that of a stranger, a circum- 
 stance which he himself was the last man in the world to regret. 
 This polite indifference was so frigid on both sides that the 
 rector did not concern himself t<i preach at her. which was a 
 great deal in a rector; and she did not take the trouble to think 
 iiis sermons poor stuff, which in a cynical female was a great 
 deal more. 
 
 Though barely fifty years of age. his hair was as white as 
 snow, contrasting strangely with the redness of his skin, whic'i 
 was as fresh and healtliy as a lad's. Cythcrea's bright eyes. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 285 
 
 mutely and demurely glancing up at him Sunday after Sunday, 
 had been the means of driving away many of the saturnine 
 humors that creep into an empty heart during the hours of a 
 solitary life; in this case, however, to supplant them, when she 
 left his parish, by'those others of a more aching nature which 
 accompany an over-full one. In short, he had been on the 
 verge of feeling toward her that passion to which his dignified 
 self-respect would not give its true name, even in the privacy 
 of his own thoughts. 
 
 He received her kindly; but she was not disposed to be 
 frank with him. He saw her wish to be reserved, and with 
 genuine good taste and good nature made no comment what- 
 ever upon her request to be allowed to see the "Chronicle" for 
 the year before the last. He placed the papers before her on his 
 study table, with a timidity as great as her own, and then left 
 her entirely to herself. 
 
 She turned them over till she came to the first heading con- 
 nected with the subject of her search, "Disastrous Fire and Loss 
 of Life at Carriford." 
 
 The sight, and its calamitous bearing upon her own life, made 
 her so dizzy that she could, for awhile, hardly decipher the 
 letters. Stifling recollection by an effort, she nerved herself 
 to her work, and carefully read the column. The account re- 
 minded her of no other fact than was remembered already. 
 
 She turned on to the following week's report of the inquest. 
 After a miserable perusal she could find no more pertaining to 
 Mrs. Manston's address than this: "Abraham Brown, of Hox- 
 ton, London, at whose house the deceased woman had been 
 living, deposed," etc. 
 
 Nobody else from London had attended the inquest. 
 She arose to depart, first sending a message of thanks to 
 Mr. Raunham, who was out gardening. 
 
 He stuck his spade into the ground, and accompanied her t<) 
 the gate. 
 
 "Can I help you in anything, Cytherea?" he said, using her 
 Christian name by an intuition that unpleasant memories might 
 be revived if he called her Miss Graye after wishing her good-by 
 as Mrs. Manston after the wedding. Cytherea saw the motive 
 and appreciated it, nevertheless replying evasively: 
 "I only guess and fear." 
 He earnestly looked at her again. 
 
 18 
 
2S6 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Promise me that if you want assistance, and yon tliink T can 
 give it, you will come to me." 
 
 "I will," she said. 
 
 The gate closed between them. 
 
 "You don't want me to help you in anything now, Cy- 
 therca?" he repeated. 
 
 If he had spoken what he felt, "I want very much to help you, 
 Cythcrea. and have l)een watching Manston on your account," 
 she would gladly have acce|)ted his olTer. As it was she was 
 perplexcil, and raised her eyes to his. not so fearlessly as before 
 lier trouble, but as modestly, and with still enough brightness 
 in them to do fearful execution as she said over the gate: 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 She returned to Palchurch wear}- with her day's work. 
 Owen's greeting was anxious. 
 
 "Well. Cytherea?" 
 
 She gave him the words from the report of the inquest, pen- 
 ciled on a slip of paper. 
 
 "Now to find out the name of the street and number," Owen 
 remarked. 
 
 "Owen, "she said, "will you forgive me for what I am going to 
 say? I don't think I can — indeed I don't think I can — take any 
 farther steps toward disentangling the mystery. I still think it 
 a useless task, and it does not seem any duty of mine to be 
 revenged upon Mr. Manston in any way." She added more 
 gravely, "It is beneath my dignity as a woman to labor for 
 this; I have felt it so all day." 
 
 "Very well." he said somewhat shortly. "I shall work without 
 you then. There's dignity in justice." He caught sight of her 
 pale, tired face, and the dilated eye which always appeared in 
 her with weariness. "Darling," he continued wamily, and kiss- 
 ing her, "you shall not work so hard again — you are worn out 
 quite. But you must let me do as I like." 
 
 § 2. JA//V// the tenth. 
 
 On Saturday evening Graye hurried off to Froominstcr, and 
 called at the house of the reporter to the "Chronicle." The re- 
 porter was at home, and came out to Grave in the passage. 
 Owen explained who and what he was, and asked the man if 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 287 
 
 he would oblige him by turning to his notes of the inquest at 
 Carriford in the December of the year preceding the last — just 
 adding that a family entanglement, of which the reporter knew 
 something, made him anxious to ascertain some additional 
 details of the event, if any existed. 
 
 "Certainly," said the other, without hesitation; "though I 
 am afraid I haven't much beyond what we printed at the time. 
 Let me see — my old note-books are in my drawer at the office 
 of the paper; if you will come with me I can refer to them 
 there." His wife and family were at tea inside the room, and 
 with the timidity of decent poverty everywhere, he seemed 
 glad to get a stranger away from his domestic groove. 
 
 They crossed the street, entered the office, and went thence 
 to an inner room. Here, after a short search, was found the 
 book required. The precise address, not given in the con- 
 densed report that was printed, but written down by the re- 
 porter, was as follows: 
 
 "Abraham Brown, lodging-house keeper, 41 Charles Square, 
 Hoxton." 
 
 Owen copied it, and gave the reporter a small fee. 'T want 
 to keep this inquiry private for the present," he said hesitat- 
 ingly. "You will perhaps understand why, and oblige me." 
 
 The reporter promised. "News is shop with me," he said, 
 "and to escape from handling it is my greatest social enjoy- 
 ment." 
 
 It was evening, and the outer room of the publishing-office 
 was lighted up with flaring jets of gas. After making the 
 above remark, the reporter came out from the inner apart- 
 ment in Graye's company, answering an expression of obliga- 
 tion from Owen with the words that it was no trouble. At 
 the moment of his speech, he closed behind him the door be- 
 tween the two rooms, still holding his note-book in his hand. 
 
 Before the counter of the front room stood a tall man, who 
 was also speaking, when they emerged. He said to the youtli 
 in attendance, "I will take my paper for this week now I am 
 here, so that you needn't post it to me." 
 
 The stranger then slightly turned his head, saw Owen, and 
 recognized him. Owen passed out without recognizing the 
 other as Alanston. 
 
 r^Ianston then looked at the reporter, who, after walking to 
 the door with Owen, had come back again to lock up his 
 
CSS DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 l)ooks. Manston did not need to be told tliat the shabby 
 niarblc-covered book which he carried in his hand, opening 
 tnilways and interleaved with bh^tting-paper. was an old re- 
 p »rting book. lie raised his eyes to the rei>()rter's face, whose 
 experience had not so schooled his features but that they 
 betrayed a consciousness, to one half-initiated as the other was, 
 that his late proceeding hail been connected with events in the 
 life of the steward. Manston said no more, but. taking his 
 newspaper, followed Owen from the office, and disappeared in 
 the gloom of the street. 
 
 Edward Springrove was now in London again, and on this 
 same evening before leaving I'roominster, Owen wrote a care- 
 ful letter to him, stating therein all the facts that had come 
 to his knowledge, and begging him. as he valued Cylherea, to 
 make cautious intpiiries. A tall man was standing under the 
 lamp-post, about half a dozen yards above the postoffice, when 
 he dropped the letter into the box. 
 
 That same night, too, for a reason connected with the 
 rencounter with Owen Graye, the steward entertained the idea 
 of rushing off suddenly to London by the mail train, which left 
 Froominster at ten o'clock. But remembering that letters 
 posted after the hour at which Owen had obtained his informa- 
 tion — whatever that was — could not be delivered in London 
 till Monday morning, he changed his mind and went home to 
 Knapwatcr. Making a confidential explanation to his wife, 
 arrangements were set on foot for his departure by the mail on 
 Sunday night. 
 
 §3. .^farr/i the eleventh. 
 
 Starting for church the next morning several mimitcs earlier 
 than was usual with him, the steward intentionally loitered al<ing 
 the road from the village till old Mr. Springrove overtook 
 him. Manston spoke very civilly of the morning, and of the 
 weather, asking how the farmer's barometer stood, and when 
 it was probable that the wind might change. It was not in 
 Mr. Si)ringrove's nature — going to church as he was, ^.^o 
 — to return anything but a civil answer to such civil 
 questions, however his feelings might have been bia.sed by late 
 events. The conversation was continued on terms of greater 
 friendliness. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 289 
 
 "You must be feeling settled again by this time, Mr. Spring- 
 rove, after the rough turn-out you had on that terrible night in 
 November." 
 
 "Ay, but I don't know about feelen settled, either, Mr. 
 Manston. The old window in the chimney-corner of the old 
 house I shall never forget. No window in the chimney-corner 
 where I am now, and I had been used to en for more than 
 fifty years. Ted says 'tis a great loss to me, and he knows 
 exactly what I feel." 
 
 "Your son is again in a good situation, I believe?" said 
 Manston, imitating that inquisitiveness toward inferiors which 
 passes for high breeding among the pinchbeck aristocracy of 
 country villages. 
 
 "Yes, sir. I hope he'll keep it, or do something else and stick 
 to it." 
 
 " Tis to be hoped he'll be steady now." 
 
 "He's always been that, I assure ye," said the old man 
 tartly. 
 
 "Yes — yes — I mean intellectually steady. Intellectual wild 
 oats will thrive in a soil of the strictest morality." 
 
 "Intellectual gingerbread! Ted's steady enough — that's all 
 I know about it." 
 
 "Of course — of course. Has he respectable lodgings? My 
 own experience has shown me that that's a great thing to a 
 young man living alone in London." 
 
 "Warwick Street, Charing Cross — that's where he is." 
 
 "Well, to be sure — strange! A very dear friend of mine 
 used to live at number fifty-two in that very same street." 
 
 "Edward lives at number forty-nine — how very near being 
 the same house," said the old farmer, pleased in spite of him- 
 self. 
 
 "Very," said Manston. "Well, I suppose we had better step 
 along a little quicker, Mr. Springrove; the parson's bell has 
 just begun." 
 
 "Number forty-nine," he murmured. 
 
 § 4. March the twelfth. 
 
 Edward received Owen's letter in due time, but on account 
 of his daily engagements he could not attend to any request 
 
290 DICSPERATF. REMEDIES. 
 
 till the clock had struck five in the afternoon. Rushinp^ then 
 from his office in the Adelphi, he called a hansom and pro- 
 ceeded to lioxton. A few minutes later he knocked at the 
 doDr of number forty-one, Charles Square, the old lodging of 
 Mrs. Manston. 
 
 A tall man who would have looked extremely handsome 
 had he not been clumsily and closely wrapped up in garments 
 that were much too elderly in style for his years, stood at the 
 corner of the quiet square at the same instant, having, too, 
 alighted from a cab that had been driven along Old .Street in 
 Edward's rear. He smiled confidently when Springrove 
 knocked. 
 
 Nobody came to the door. Springrove knocked again. 
 
 This brought out two pcojile — one at the door he had been 
 knocking ui^on. the other from the next on the right. 
 
 "Is Mr. Brown at home?" said Springrove. 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "When will he be in?" 
 
 "Quite uncertain." 
 
 "Can you tell me where I may find him?" 
 
 "No. Oh, here he is coming, sir. That's Mr. Brown." 
 
 Edward looked down the pavement in the direction pointed 
 out by the woman, and saw a man approaching. lie pro- 
 ceeded a few steps to meet him. 
 
 Edward was impatient, and to a certain extent still a country- 
 man, who had not, after the manner of city men, subdued the 
 natural impulse to speak out the ruling thought without pre- 
 face. He said in a quiet tone to the stranger, "One word with 
 you — do you remember a lady lodger of yours of the name of 
 Mrs. Manston?" 
 
 Mr. Brown half closed his eyes at Springrove, somewhat 
 as if he were looking into a telescope at the wrong end. 
 
 "I have never let lodgings in my life," he said, after his 
 sur^•ey. 
 
 "Didn't you attend an Muiuest a year and a half ago. at 
 Carriford?" 
 
 "Never knew there was such a place in the world, sir; and 
 as to lodgings, I have taken acres first and last during the last 
 thirty years, but I have never let an inch." 
 
 "I suppose there is some mistake." Edward murmured, and 
 turni'd away. He and Mr. Bnnvn were now opposite the door 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 291 
 
 next to the one he had knocked at. The woman who v;as still 
 standing- there had heard the inquiry and the result of it. 
 
 "1 expect it is the other Mr. Brown, who used to live there, 
 that you want, sir," she said; "the Mr. Brown that was inquired 
 for the other day?" 
 
 "Very likely that is the man," said Edward, his interest re- 
 awakening. 
 
 "He couldn't make a do of lodging-letting here, and at last 
 he went to Cornwall, where he came from, and where his 
 brother still lived, who had often asked him to come home 
 again. But there was little luck in the change; for after 
 London they say he couldn't stand the rainy west winds they 
 get there, and he died in the December following. Will you 
 step into the passage?" 
 
 "That's unfortunate," said Edward, going in. "But perhaps 
 you remember a Mrs. Manston living next door to you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said the landlady, closing the door. "The lady 
 who was supposed to have met with such a horrible fate, and 
 was alive all the time. I saw her the other day." 
 
 "Since the fire at Carriford?" 
 
 "Yes. Her husband came to ask if Mr. Brown was still 
 living here — just as you might. He seemed anxious about it; 
 and then one evening, a week or fortnight afterward, when he 
 came again to make further inquiries, she was with him. But 
 I did not speak to her — she stood back, as if she were shy. I 
 was interested, however, for old Mr. Brown had told me all 
 about her when he came back from the inquest." 
 
 "Did you know ]\Irs. Manston before she called the other 
 day?" 
 
 "No. You see she was only Mr. Brown's lodger for two 
 or three weeks, and I didn't know she was living there till she 
 was near upon leaving again — we don't notice next-door people 
 much here in London. I much regretted I had not known 
 her when I heard what had happened. It led me and Mr. 
 Brown to talk about her a great deal afterward. I little 
 thought I should see her alive after all." 
 
 "And when do you say they came here together?" 
 
 "I don't exactly remember the day — though I remember a 
 very beautiful dream I had that same night — ah, I shall never 
 forget it! Shoals of lodgers coming along the square witli 
 angels' wings and bright golden sovereigns in their hands 
 
-92 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 waiitinp^ apartments at West End prices. They would not g-ivc 
 any less; no, not if you — " 
 
 "Yes. Did Mrs. Manston leave anything;, such as papers, 
 when she left these lodp^ini^s originally?" said Edward, though 
 his heart sank as he asked. He felt that he was outwittetl. 
 Mansion and his \\ife had been there before him. clearing the 
 ground of all traces. 
 
 "I have always said 'No' hitherto,'.' replied the woman, "con- 
 sidering I could say no more if put upon my oath, as I expected 
 to be. I'ut speaking in a common everyday way, now the 
 occurrence is past, I believe a few things of some kind (though 
 I doubt if they were papers) were left in a workbox she had, 
 i)ecause she talked about it to Mr. Brown, and was rather angry 
 at what occurred — you see she had a temper by all account, 
 and so I didn't like to remind the lady of this workbox 
 when she came the other day with her husband." 
 
 "And about the workbox?'' 
 
 "Well, from what was casually dropped, I ,think Mrs. 
 Manston had a few articles of furniture she didn't want, and 
 when she was leaving they were put in a sale just by. Among 
 her things were two workboxes very mucli alike. One of 
 these she intended to sell, the other she didn't, and Mr. Brown, 
 who collected the things together, took the wrong one to the 
 sale." 
 
 "What was in it?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing in particular, or of any value — some accounts, 
 and her usual sewing materials, I think — nothing more. She 
 didn't take much trouble to get it back — she said the bills were 
 worth nothing to her or anyljody else, but that she should have 
 liketl to keep the box because her husband gave it her when 
 they were first married, and if he found she had parted with it 
 he would be vexed." 
 
 "Did Mrs. Manston, when she called recently with her 
 husband, allude to this, or inquire for it, or did Mr. Manston?" 
 
 "No — and I rather wondered at it. But she seemed to have 
 forgotten it — indeed she didn't make any inquiry at all, only 
 standing behind him, listening to his; and he probably had 
 never been told anything about it." 
 
 "Whose sale were these articles of hers taken to?'' 
 
 "Who was the auctioneer? Mr. Halway. His place is the 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 293- 
 
 third turning from the end of the street you see there. Any- 
 body will tell you the shop — his name is written up." 
 
 Edward went off to follow up this clue with a promptness 
 which was dictated more by a dogged will to do his utmost 
 than by a hope of doing much. When he was out of sight, 
 the tall and cloaked man, who had watched him, came up to 
 the woman's door, with an appearance of being in breathless 
 haste. 
 
 "Has a gentleman been here inquiring about Mrs. Man- 
 ston?" 
 
 "Yes; he's just gone." 
 
 "Dear me! I want him." 
 
 "He's gone to Mr. Halway's." 
 
 "I think I can give him some information upon the subject. 
 Does he pay pretty liberally?" 
 
 "He gave me half a crown." 
 
 "That scale will do. I'm a poor man, and will see what my 
 little contribution to his knowledge will fetch. But by the way, 
 perhaps you told him all I know — where she lived before 
 coming here?" 
 
 "I didn't know where she lived before coming here. Oh, no — 
 I only said what Mr. Brown had told me. He seemed a nice 
 gentle young man, or I shouldn't have been so open as I was." 
 
 "I shall now about catch him at Mr. Halway's," said the man, 
 and went away as hastily as he had come. 
 
 Edward in the meantime had reached the auction-room. 
 He found some difficulty, on account of the inertness of those 
 whose only inducement to an action is a mere wish from 
 another, in getting the information he stood in need of, but it 
 was at last accorded him. The auctioneer's book gave the 
 name of Mrs. Higgins, 3 Canley Passage, as the purchaser of 
 the lot which had included Mrs. ^lanston's workbox. 
 
 Thither Edward went, followed by the man. Four bell- 
 pulls, one above the other like vv-aistcoat buttons, appeared on 
 the door-post. Edward seized the first he came to. 
 
 "Who did you want?" said a thin voice from somewhere. 
 
 Edward looked above and around him; nobody was visible. 
 
 "Who did you want?" said the thin voice again. 
 
 He found now that the sound proceeded from below the 
 grating covering the basement window. He dropped his 
 glance through the bars, and saw a child's white face. 
 
1 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Who did you want?"' said the voice the iliird time, with 
 prciisely tlic same languid inflection. 
 
 "Mrs. Ilippns," said E(hvard. 
 
 "Third I)l11 up," said the face, and disappeared. 
 
 He pulled the third bell from the bottom, and was admitted 
 by another child, the daughter of the woman he was in search 
 of. He gave the little thing sixpence, and asked for her 
 mamma. The child led him upstairs. 
 
 Mrs. Higgins was the wife of a carpenter who from want of 
 employment one winter had decided to marry. Afterward they 
 both took to drink, and sank into desperate circumstances, 
 A few chairs and a table were the chief articles of furniture in 
 the third-floor back room which they occupied. A roll of baby- 
 linen lay on the fl »or; beside it a pap-cloggcd spoon and an 
 overturned tin pap-cup. Against the wall a Dutch clock was 
 fixed out of level, and ticked wildly in longs and shorts, its 
 chains and weights hanging down beneath its white face and 
 wir>' hands, like the droppings from a harpy; ("foedissima 
 venlris proluvies. uncaeque manus, et pallida semper ora.") A 
 baby was crying against every chair-leg. the whole family r){ 
 six or seven being small cninigh to be covered by a washing- 
 tub. Mrs. Higgins sat helpless, clothed in a dress which had 
 hooks and eyes in plenty. Init never one opposite the other, 
 thereby retidering the dress almost useless as a screen to the 
 Ix^som. No workbox was visible anywhere. 
 
 It was a depressing picture of married life among the veiy 
 poor of a city. Only for one short hour in the whole twenty- 
 fo\ir did husband and wife taste genuine happiness. It was in 
 the evening, when, after the sale of some necessary article of 
 '.iniiture. they were under the influence of a bottle of gin. 
 
 Of all the ingenious and cruel satires that from the begin- 
 ning till now have been stuck like knives into womankind, 
 surely there is not one so lacerating to them, and to us who 
 I n'e them, as the trite old fact, that the most wretched of men 
 can, in the twinkling of an eye. find a wife ready to be more 
 wretched still for the sake of his company. 
 
 Edward hastened to dispatch his errand. 
 
 Mrs. Higgins had lately pawned the workbox with other 
 useless articles of lumber, she said. Edward bought the dupli- 
 cate of her, and went downstairs to the pawnbroker's. 
 
 In the back division of a musty shop, amid the hetero- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 295 
 
 geneous collection of articles and odors invariably crowding 
 such places, he produced his ticket, and with a sense of satis- 
 faction out of all proportion to the probable worth of his 
 acquisition, took the box and carried it ofi under his arm. 
 He attempted to lift the cover as he walked, but found it 
 locked. 
 
 It was dusk when Springrove reached his lodging. En- 
 tering his small sitting-room, the front apartment on the 
 ground floor, he struck a light, and proceeded to learn if any 
 scrap or mark within or upon his purchase rendered it of 
 moment to the business in hand. Breaking open the cover 
 with a small chisel, and lifting the tray, he glanced eagerly 
 beneath, and found — nothing. 
 
 He next discovered that a pocket or portfolio was formed 
 on the underside of the cover. This he unfastened, and 
 slipping his hand within, found that it really contained some 
 substance. First he pulled out about a dozen tangled silk 
 and cotton threads. Under them were a short household 
 account, a dry moss-rosebud, and an old pair of carte-de-visite 
 photographs. One of these was a likeness of Mrs. Manston — 
 "Eunice" being written under it in ink — the other of Manston 
 himself. 
 
 He sat down dispirited. This was all the fruit of his task 
 — not a single letter, date, or address of any kind to help him — 
 and was it likely there would be? 
 
 However, thinking he would send the fragments, such as 
 they were, to Graye, in order to satisfy him that he had done his 
 best so far, he scribbled a line, and put all except the silk and 
 cotton into an envelope. Looking at his watch he found it 
 w^as then twenty minutes to seven ; by affixing an extra stamp 
 he would be enabled to dispatch them by that evening's post. 
 He hastily directed the packet, and ran with it at once to the 
 postoffice at Charing Cross. 
 
 On his return he took up the workbox again to examine it 
 more leisurely. He then found there was also a small cavity 
 in the tray under the pincushion, which was movable by a bit of 
 ribbon. Lifting this, he uncovered a flattened sprig of myrtle 
 and a small scrap of crumpled paper. The paper contained a 
 verse or two in a man's handwriting. He recognized it as 
 Manston's, having seen notes and bills from him at his father's 
 
296 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 house. The stanza was of a comphnientary character, descript- 
 ive of the lady who was now Manston's wife. 
 
 "EUNICE. 
 
 "Whoso for hours or lengthy days 
 Shall catch her aspect's changeful rays, 
 Then turn away, can none recall 
 Beyond a galaxy of all 
 
 In hazy portraiture; 
 Lit by the light of azure eyes 
 Like summer days by summer skies: 
 Her sweet transitions seem to be 
 A kind of pictured melody, 
 And not a set contour. 
 
 "AE. M." 
 
 To shake, pull, and ransack the bo.x till he had almost 
 destroyed it was now his natural action. But it contained 
 absolutely nothing more. 
 
 "Disappointed again." he said, flinging d'lwn the bo.x, the 
 bit of paper, and the withered twig that had lain with it. 
 
 Yet valueless as the new acquisition was, on second thoughts 
 he considered that it would be worth while to make good the 
 statement in his late note to Graye — that he had sent everything 
 the bo.x contained except the sewing-thread. Thereupon he 
 inclosed the verse and myrtle-twig in another envelope, with a 
 remark that he had overlooked them in his first search, and put 
 it on the table for the next day's post. 
 
 In his hurry and concentration upon the matter that occu- 
 l)ied him, Springrove on entering his lodgings and obtaining 
 a light had not waited to pull down the blind or close the 
 shutters. Consequently all that he had done had been visible 
 from the street. Rut as on an average not one person in five 
 minutes passed along the quiet pavement at this time of the 
 evening, the discovery of the omission did not much concern his 
 mind. 
 
 But the real state of the case was, that a tall man had stood 
 against the opposite wall and watched the whole of liis proceed- 
 ing. When Edward came out and went to the Charing Cross 
 postoffice, the man followed him and saw him drop the letter 
 into the box. The stranger did n >t further trouble himself 
 to follow Springrove back to his lodging again. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 297 
 
 Manston now knew that there had been photographs of some 
 kind in his wife's workbox, and though he had not been near 
 enough to see them, he guessed whose they were. The least 
 reflection told him to whom they had been sent. 
 
 He paused a minute under the portico of the postofhce, look- 
 ing at the two or three omnibuses stopping and starting in front 
 of him. Then he rushed along the Strand, through Holywell 
 Street, and on to Old Boswell Court. Kicking aside the shoe- 
 blacks who began to importune him as he passed under the 
 colonnade, he turned up the narrow passage to the publishing- 
 of^ce of the Post-Office Directory. He begged to 1)e allowed 
 to see the Directory of the Southwest counties of England for 
 a moment. 
 
 The shopman immediately handed down the volume from 
 a shelf, and Manston retired with it to the window-bench. 
 He turned to the county, and then to the parish of Palchurch. 
 At the end of the historical and topographical description of 
 the village he read: 
 
 "Postmistress — Mrs. Hurston. Letters received at 6:30 
 a. m. by foot-post from Mundsbury." 
 
 Returning his thanks, he handed back the book and quitted 
 the office, thence pursuing his way to an obscure coffee-house 
 by the Strand, where he now partook of a light dinner. But 
 rest seemed impossible with him. Some absorbing intention 
 kept his body continually on the move. He paid his bill, took 
 his bag in his hand, and went out to idle about the streets and 
 over the river till the time should have arrived at which the 
 night mail left the Waterloo Station, by which train he intended 
 to return homeward. 
 
 There exists as it were an outer chamber to the mind, in 
 which, when a man is occupied centrally with the most 
 momentous question of his life, casual and trifling thoughts 
 are just allowed to wander softly for an interval, before being 
 banished altogether. Thus, amid his concentration did Man- 
 ston receive perceptions of the individuals about him in the 
 lively thoroughfare of the Strand: tall men looking insignifi- 
 cant: little men looking great and profound: lost women of 
 miserable repute looking as happy as the days are long: wives, 
 happy by assumption, looking careworn and miserable. Each 
 and all were alike in this one respect, that they followed a 
 solitary trail like the inwoven threads which form a banner, 
 
. .s DESPERATE REMEDIES, 
 
 aiul all were e^iually unconscious of the significant whole they 
 collectively showed forth. 
 
 At ten o'clock he turned into Lancaster Place, crossed the 
 river, and entered the railway station, where he took his seat 
 in the down mail train, which bore him, and Edward Spring- 
 rove's letter to Grave, far awav from London. 
 
CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY. 
 § I. March the thirteenth. Three to six o'' clock a. m. 
 
 They entered Mundsbury Station — the next but one to Froo- 
 minster on the London side — in the dead, still time of early 
 morning, the clock over the booking-office pointing to twenty- 
 live minutes to three. Manston lingered on the platform and 
 saw the mail-bags brought out, noticing, as a pertinent pastime, 
 the many shabby blotches of wax from innumerable seals that 
 had been set upon their mouths. The guard took them into a 
 fly, and \f as driven down the road to the postoffice. 
 
 It was a raw, damp, uncomfortable morning, though, as 
 yet, little rain was falling. Ivlanston drank a mouthful from 
 his flask and w^alked at once away from the station. Avoiding 
 ]\Iundsbury by keeping in a lane which curved about its out- 
 skirts, he pursued his way through the gloom till he stood on 
 the side of the town opposite to the railway station, at a distance 
 from die last house in the street of about two hundred yards. 
 
 Here the turnpike-road into the country lay, the first part of 
 its course being across a moor. Having surveyed the highway 
 up and down to make sure of its bearing, Manston method- 
 ically set himself to walk backward and forward a stone's throw 
 in each direction. Although the spring was temperate, the 
 time of day, and the condition of suspense in which the steward 
 found himself, caused a sensation of chilliness to pervade his 
 frame in spite of the overcoat he wore. The drizzling rain in- 
 creased, and drops from the trees at the wayside fell noisily 
 upon the hard road beneath them, which reflected from its 
 glassy surface the faint halo of light hanging over the lamps of 
 the adjacent town. 
 
300 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Plere he walked and lingered for tvvo hours, without seeing 
 or hearing a living soul. Then he heard the market-house 
 clock strike five, and soon afterward, quick, hard footsteps 
 smote upon the pavement of the street leading toward him. 
 They were those of the postman for the Palchurch heat. He 
 reached the iKjttom of the street, gave his hags a final hitch-up, 
 stepped ofT the pavement, and struck out for the country with 
 a hrisk shuffle. 
 
 Manston then turned his hack upon the town, and walked 
 slowly on. In two minutes a flickering light shone upon his 
 form, and the postman overtook him. 
 
 The new-comer was a short, stooping individual of ah«^»ve 
 five-and-forty. laden on hoth sides witii leather hags large 
 and small, and carrying a little lantern strapped to his hreast, 
 which cast a tiny patch of light upon the road ahead. 
 
 "A tryen mornen for travelers!" the postman cried, in a cheer- 
 ful voice, without turning his head or slackening his trot. 
 
 "It is, indeed," said Manston, stepping out abreast of him. 
 "You have a long walk every day." 
 
 "Yes — a long walk — for though the distance is only sixteen 
 miles on the straight — that is eight to the farthest place and 
 eight back, what with the ins and outs to the gentlemen's 
 houses, d' make two-and-twenty for my legs. Two-and-t\venty 
 miles a day, how many a year? I used to reckon it. but I 
 never do now. I don't care to think o' my wear and tear now, 
 now d' begin to tell upon mc." 
 
 Thus the conversation was begun, and the postman pro- 
 ceeded to narrate the different strange events that had marked 
 his experience. Manston grew very friendly. 
 
 "Postman, I don't know what your custom is," he said, after 
 awhile; "but between you and me. I always carry a drop of 
 something warm in my pocket when I am out on such a 
 morning as this. Try it." He handed the bottle of brandy. 
 
 "If you'll excuse me. please. 1 haven't took no stinunilcnts 
 these five years." 
 
 " 'Tis never too late to mend." 
 
 "Against the regulations, I be afraid." 
 
 "W'lio'll know it?" 
 
 "That's true — nobody will know it. Still, honesty's the best 
 policy." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 301 
 
 "Ah — it is certainly. But, thank God, I've been able to get 
 on without it yet. You'll surely drink with me?" 
 
 "Really, 'tis a'most too early for that sort o' thing — how- 
 ever, to oblige a friend, 1 don't object to the faintest shadder of 
 a drop." The postman drank, and Manston did the same to a 
 very slight degree. Five minutes later, when they came to a 
 gate, the flask was pulled out again. 
 
 "Well done!" said the postman, beginning to feel its effect; 
 "but, guide my soul, I be afraid 'twill hardly do !" 
 
 "Not unless 'tis well followed, like any other line you take up," 
 said Manston. "Besides, there's a way of liking a drop of 
 liquor, and of being good — even religious — at the same time." 
 
 "Ay, for some thimble-and-button in-and-out fellers; but I 
 could never get into the knack o' it; not I." 
 
 "Well, you needn't be troubled; it isn't necessary for the 
 higher class of mind to be religious — they have so much com- 
 mon sense that they can risk playing with fire." 
 
 "That hits me exactly." 
 
 "In fact, a man I know, who always had no other god but 
 Me, and devoutly loved his neighbor's wife, says now that 
 believing is a mistake." 
 
 "Well, to be sure ! However, believing in God is a mistake 
 made by very few people, after all." 
 
 "A true remark." 
 
 "Not one Christian in our parish would walk half a mile in 
 a rain like this to know whether the Scripture had concluded 
 him under sin or grace." 
 
 "Nor in mine." 
 
 "Ah, you may depend upon it they'll do away wi' Providence 
 altogether, afore long, although we've had him over us so 
 many years." 
 
 "There's no knowing." 
 
 "And I suppose the Queen will be done away wi' then. A 
 pretty concern that'll be! Nobody's head to put on your 
 letters; and then your honest man who do pay his penny will 
 never be known from your scamp who don't. Oh, 'tis a 
 nation!" 
 
 "Warm the cockles of your heart, however. Here's the 
 bottle waiting." 
 
 "I'll oblige you, my friend." 
 
 The drinking was repeated. The postman grew livelier as 
 
 20 
 
302 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 he went on, and at Icn^'lh favored the steward with a song, 
 Manston himself joining in the chonis. 
 
 "He flung his mallet against the wall, 
 Said. 'The Lord make churches and chapels to fall. 
 And there'll be work for tradesmen all!' 
 When Joan's ale was new, 
 
 My boys. 
 When Joan's ale was new." 
 
 "You understand, friend," the postman added, "I was origi- 
 nally a mason by trade: no offense to you if you be a parson?" 
 
 "None at all," said Manston. 
 
 The rain now came down heavily, but they pursued their 
 path with alacrity, the produce of the several fields bctw-cn 
 which the lane wended its way being indicated by the pecuhar 
 character of the sound emitted by the falling drops. Some- 
 times a soaking hiss proclaimed that they were passing by a 
 pasture, then a patter would show that the rain fell upon some 
 large-leafed root crop, then a paddling plash announced the 
 naked arable, the low sound of the wind in their ears rising and 
 falling with each pace they took. 
 
 Besides the small private bags of the county families, which 
 were all locked, the postman bore the large general budget 
 for the remaining inhabitants along his beat. At each village 
 or hamlet they came to the postman searched for the packet of 
 letters destined for that jilace, and thrust it into an ordinary 
 letter-hole cut in the door of the receiver's cottage — the village 
 postoffices being mostly kept by old women, who had not yet 
 risen, though lights moving in other cottage windows showed 
 that such people as carters, woodmen, and stablemen had long 
 been stirring. 
 
 The postman had by this time become markedly unsteady, 
 but he still continued to be too conscious of his duties to 
 suffer the steward to search the bag. Manston was perplexed, 
 and at lonely points in the road cast his eyes keenly upon the 
 short bowed figure of the man trotting through the mud by 
 his side, as if he were half inclined to run a very great risk 
 indeed. 
 
 It frequently hai>pened that the houses of farmers, clergy- 
 men, etc., lay a short distance up or down a lane or path 
 branching fn^n the direct track of the postman's journey. To 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 303 
 
 save time and distance, at the point of junction of some of these 
 lanes with the main one, the gate-post was hollowed out to 
 form a letter-box, in which the postman deposited his missives 
 in the morning-, looking in the box again in the evening to col- 
 lect those placed there for the return post. Palchurch Vicarage 
 and Farmstead, lying apart from the village, were unitedly 
 served on this principle. This fact the steward now learned by 
 conversing with the postman, and the discovery relieved Man- 
 sion greatly, making his intentions much clearer to himself than 
 they had been in the earlier stages of his journey. 
 
 They had reached the outskirts of the village. Manston in- 
 sisted upon the flask being emptied before they proceeded 
 farther. This was done, and they ascended the sandy hill from 
 which branched the lane leading to the church, the vicarage, 
 and the farm-house in which Owen and Cytherea were living. 
 
 The postman paused, fumbled in his bag, took out by the 
 light of his lantern some half-dozen letters, and tried to sort 
 them. He could not perform the task. 
 
 ''\\"e be crippled disciples a b'lieve," he said, with a sigh and 
 a stagger. 
 
 "Not drunk, but market-merry," said Manston cheerfully. 
 
 "Well done! If I ben't so weak that I can't see the clouds — 
 much less letters. Guide my soul, if so be anybody should 
 tell the queen's postmaster-general of me! The whole story 
 will have to go through Parliament House, and I shall be 
 high-treasoned — as safe as houses — and be fined, and who'll 
 pay for a poor martel ! Oh, 'tis a world !" 
 
 "Trust in the Lord — he'll pay." 
 
 "He pay a b'lieve! why should he when he didn't drink the 
 drink, and the devil's a friend o' them who did? He pay a 
 b'lieve! D'ye think the man's a fool?" 
 
 "Well, well, I had no intention of hurting your feelings — but 
 how was I to know you were so sensitive?" 
 
 "True — you were not to know I was so sensitive. Here's a 
 caddie wi' these letters! Guide my soul, what will Billy do!" 
 
 Manston offered his services. 
 
 "They are to be divided," the man said. 
 
 "How?" said Manston. 
 
 "These, for the village, to be carried on into it: any for the 
 vicarage or vicarage-farm must be left in the box of the gate- 
 post just here. There's none for the vicarage-house this morn- 
 
 20 
 
304 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 en, but I saw when I started there was one for the clerk o' works 
 at the new church. Tliis is it, isn't it?" 
 
 He held up a lar^e envelope, directed in Edward Spring- 
 rove's handwriting:, 
 
 "Mr. Owen Grave, 
 "Clerk of Works, 
 "Palchurch. 
 
 "Near Mundsbury." 
 
 The letter-box was scooped in an oak p^ate-post about a 
 foot square. There was no slit for inserting the letters, by 
 reason of the opportunity such a lonely spot would have 
 afforded mischievous peasant-boys of floing mischief had such 
 been the case; but at the side was a small iron door, kept close 
 by an iron reversible strap locked across it. One side of this 
 strap was painted black, the other white, and white or black 
 outward implied respectively that there were letters inside or 
 none. 
 
 The postman had taken the key from his pocket and was 
 attempting to insert it in the keyhole of the box. He touched 
 one side, the other, above, below, but never made a straight 
 hit. 
 
 "Let me unlock it." said Manston, taking the key from the 
 postman. He opened the box and reached out with his other 
 hand for Owen's letter. 
 
 "Xo, no. Oh. no — no." the postman said. "As — one — of — ■ 
 Majesty's servants — care — Majesty's mails — duty — put letters 
 — own hands." He slowly and solemnly placed the letter in 
 the small cavity. 
 
 "Now lock it." he said, closing the door. 
 
 The steward placed the l)ar across, with the black side out- 
 ward, signifying "empty," and turned the key. 
 
 "You've put the wrong side outward!" said the postman. 
 " 'Tisn't empty." 
 
 "And dropped the key in the nuid. so that T can't alter it." 
 said the steward, letting something fall. 
 
 "What an awkward thing!" 
 
 "It is an awkward thing." 
 
 They both went searching in the mud. which their own 
 trampling had reduced to the consistency of pap. the postman 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES, 305 
 
 unstrapping his little lantern from his breast, and thrusting it 
 about, close to the ground, the rain still drizzling down, and 
 the dawn so tardy on account of the heavy clouds that dayliglit 
 seemed delayed indefinitely. The rays of the lantern were ren- 
 dered individually visible upon the thick mist, and seemed 
 almost tangible as they passed off into it, after illuminating the 
 faces and knees of the two stooping figvuxs dripping wath wet ; 
 the postman's cape and private bags, and the steward's valise, 
 glistening as if they had l3een varnished. 
 
 "It fell on the grass," said the postman. 
 
 "No: it fell in the mud," said Manston. They searched 
 again. 
 
 "I'm afraid we shan't find it by this light," said the steward 
 at length, washing his muddy fingers in the wet grass of the 
 bank. 
 
 "I'm afraid we shan't," said the other, standing up. 
 
 "I'll tell you what we had better do," said Manston, "I shall 
 be back this way in an hour or so, and since it was all my fault, 
 I'll look again, and shall be sure to find it in the daylight. And 
 I'll hide the key here for you." He pointed to a spot behind the 
 post. "It will be too late to turn the index then, as the people 
 wall have been here, so that the box had better stay as it is. 
 The letter will only be delayed a day, and that will not be 
 noticed: if it is, you can say you placed the iron the wrong 
 way without knowing it, and all will be well." 
 
 This was agreed to by the postman as the best thing to be 
 done under the circumstances, and the pair went on. They 
 had passed the village and come to a cross-road, when the 
 steward, telling his companion that their paths now diverged, 
 turned off to the left toward Froominster. 
 
 No sooner was the postman out of sight and hearing than 
 IManston stalked back to the vicarage letter-box by keeping 
 inside a fence, and thus avoiding the village; arrived here, he 
 took the key from his pocket, where it had been concealed all 
 the time, and abstracted Owen's letter. This done he turned 
 toward home, by the help of what he carried in his valise ad- 
 justing himself to his ordinary appearance as he neared the 
 quarter in which he \Aas known. 
 
 An hour and a half's sharp walking brought him to his own 
 door in Knapwater Park, 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 § 2. Eiji^ht o'clock a. m. 
 
 Seated in his private office he wetted the flap of the stolen 
 letter and waited patiently till the adhesive gum could be 
 loosened. lie took out luiward's note, the accounts, the rose- 
 hud, and the photog^raphs, regardinj^ them with the keenest 
 interest and anxiety. 
 
 The note, the accounts, the rosebud, and his own photo- 
 graph he restored to their places again. The other i)hotograph 
 he took between his finger and thumb, and held it toward the 
 bars of the grate. There he held it for half a minute or more, 
 meditating. 
 
 "It is a great risk t(5 run, even for such an end," he muttered. 
 
 Suddenly, impregnated with a bright idea, he jumped up and 
 left the office for the front parlor. Taking up an album of por- 
 traits, which lay on the table, he searched for three or four 
 likenesses of the lady who had so lately displaced Cytherea. 
 which were interspersed among the rest of the collection, and 
 carefully regarded them. They were taken in different attitudes 
 and styles, and he compared each singly with that he held in his 
 hand. One of them, the one m)st resembling that abstracted 
 from the letter in general tone. size, and attitude, he selected 
 from the rest, and returned with it to his office. 
 
 Pouring some water into a plate, he set the two portraits 
 afloat upon it, and sitting down tried to read. 
 
 At the end of a quarter of an hour, after several ineffectual 
 attempts, he found that each photograph would peel from the 
 card on which it was mounted. This done, he threw into the 
 fire the original likeness and the recent card, stuck upon the 
 original card the recent likeness from the album, dried it before 
 the fire, and placed it in the envelope with the other scraps. 
 
 The result he had obtained, then, was this: in the envelope 
 were now two photographs, both having the same photog- 
 rapher's name <>n the back and consecutive numbers attached. 
 .•\t the bottom of the one which showed his own likeness, his 
 own name was written down; on the other his wife's name was 
 written; while the central feature, and whole matter to which 
 this latter card and writing referred, the likeness of a ladv 
 rir.unted upon it. had bf^cn changed. 
 
 .Mrs. Manston entered t!ie room, and begged him to come to 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 307 
 
 breakfast. He followed her, and they sat down. During the 
 meal he told her what he had done, with scrupulous regard to 
 every detail, and showed her the result. 
 
 "It is indeed a great risk to run," she said, sipping her tea. 
 
 "But it would be a greater not to do it." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The envelope was again fastened up as before, and Manston 
 put it in his pocket and went out. Shortly afterward he was 
 seen on horseback riding in a direction skirting Froominster 
 and toward Palchurch. Keeping to the fields, as well as he 
 could, for the greater part of the way, he dropped into the road 
 by the vicarage letter-box, and looking carefully about to 
 ascertain that no person was near, he restored the letter to its 
 nook, placed the key in its hiding-place, as he had promised 
 the postman, and again rode homeward by a roundabout way. 
 
 § 3. Afternoon. 
 
 The letter was brought to Owen Graye the same afternoon 
 by one of the vicar's servants, wdio had been to the box with a 
 duplicate key, as usual, to leave letters for the evening post. 
 The man found that the index had told falsely that morning for 
 the first time within his recollection; but no particular attention 
 was paicj to the mistake, as it was considered. The contents 
 of the envelope were scrutinized by Owen and flung aside as 
 useless. 
 
 The next morning brought Springrove's second letter, the 
 existence of which was unknown to Manston. The sight of 
 Edward's handwriting again raised the expectations of brother 
 and sister, till Owen had opened the envelope and pulled out 
 the twig and verse. 
 
 "Nothing that's of the slightest use after all." he said to her; 
 "we are as far as ever from the merest shadow of legal proof 
 that would convict him of what I am morally certain he did, 
 marry you, suspecting, if not knowing, her to be alive all the 
 time." 
 
 "What has Edward sent?" said Cytherea. 
 
 "An old amatory verse in Manston's writing. Fancy," he said 
 bitterly, "this is the strain he addressed her in when they were 
 courting — as he did you, I suppose." 
 
308 DESPKKATE REMEDIES. 
 
 He liancltd her the verse and she read: 
 
 '• EUNICE. 
 
 " 'Whoso for hours or lengthy days 
 
 Shall catch her aspect's chanpfful rays, 
 Then turn away, can none recall 
 Beyond a galaxy of all 
 
 In hazy portraiture; 
 Lit by the light of azure eyes, 
 Like summer days by summer skies, 
 Her sweet transitions seem to be 
 A kind of pictured melody, 
 And not aset contour. 
 
 " 'AE. M.' " 
 
 A strang-e expression had overspread Cytherea's counte- 
 nance. It rapidly increased to the most death-hke anguish. 
 Slie flung down the paper, seized Owen's hand trembhngly, and 
 covered her face. 
 
 "Cytherea! What is it, for heaven's sake?" 
 
 "Owen — suppose — oh, vou don't know what I think." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " 'The light of azure eyes,' " she repeated, with ashy lips. 
 
 "Well, 'tlie light of azure eyes?' " he said, astounded at her 
 manner. 
 
 "Mrs. Morris said in her letter to me that her eyes are black!" 
 
 "H'm. Mrs. M'jrris must have made a mistake — nothing 
 likelier." 
 
 "She didn't." 
 
 "They might be cither in this photograph," said Owen, look- 
 ing at the card bearing Mrs. Man.ston's name. 
 
 "VAuc eyes would scarcely photograph so deep in tone as 
 that." said Cytherea. "Xo, they seem black here, certainly." 
 
 "Well, then, Manston must have blundered in writing his 
 verses." 
 
 "But could he? Say a man in love may forget his own name, 
 but tint that he forgets the color of his mistress' eyes. Besides, 
 she would have seen the mistake when she read them, and have 
 had '"t corrected." 
 
 "That's true, she would," mused Owen. "Then, Cytherea, 
 it coiTics to tliis — you nuist have been misinformed by Mrs. 
 Morris, since there is no other alternative." 
 
 "I suppose 1 nuist." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 309 
 
 Her looks belied her words. 
 
 "What makes you so strange — ill?" said Owen again. 
 
 "I can't believe Mrs. Morris wrong." 
 
 "But look at this, Cytherea. If it is clear to us that the woman 
 had blue eyes two years ago, she must have blue eyes now, 
 whatever Mrs. Morris or anybody else may fancy. Any one 
 would think that Manston could change the color of a woman's 
 eyes to hear you." 
 
 "Yes," she said, and paused. 
 
 "You say yes, as if he could," said Owen impatiently. 
 
 "By changing the woman herself," she exclaimed. "Owen, 
 don't you see the horrid — what I dread? — that the woman he 
 lives with is not Mrs. IManston — that she was burned after all 
 —and that I am HIS WIFE!" 
 
 She tried to support a stoicism under the weight of this new- 
 trouble, but no! The unexpected revulsion of ideas was so 
 overwhelming that she crept to him and leaned against his 
 breast. 
 
 Before reflecting any further upon the subject Graye led her 
 upstairs and got her to lie down. Then he went to the window 
 and stared out of it up the lane, vainly endeavoring to come to 
 some conclusion upon the fantastic enigma that confronted 
 him. Cytherea's new view seemed incredible, yet it had such 
 a hold upon her that it would be necessary to clear it away by 
 positive proof before contemplation of her fear should have 
 preyed too deeply upon her. 
 
 "Cytherea," he said, "this will not do. You must stay here 
 alone all the afternoon while I go to Carriford. I shall know 
 all when I return." 
 
 "No, no, don't go !" she implored. 
 
 "Soon, then, not directly." He saw her subtle reasoning — 
 that it was folly to be wise. 
 
 Reflection still convinced him that good would come of 
 persevering in his intention and dispelling his sister's idle fears. 
 Anything was better than this absurd doubt in her mind. But 
 he resolved to wait till Sunday, the first day on which he might 
 reckon upon seeing Mrs. Manston without suspicion. In the 
 meantime he wrote to Edward Springrove requesting him to go 
 again to Mrs. Manston's former lodging. 
 
CHAPTER Win. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF THREE DAYS. 
 § I. JL:rc-/i //i<- (-/[i^/i/ct-fif/i. 
 
 Sunday morniiii;- had come, and Owen was trudj^inc: over tlie 
 six miles of hill and dale that lav between Palchurch and Carri- 
 ford. 
 
 Edward Springrove's answer to the last letter, after express- 
 in<x his amazement at the strange contradiction between the 
 verses and Mrs. Morris' letter, had been to the effect that he had 
 again visited the neighbor of the dead Mr. Brown and had 
 received as near a description of Mrs. Mansion as it was 
 possible to get at second-hand, and by hearsay. She was a tall 
 woman, wide at the shoulders, and full-bosomed, and she had a 
 straight and rather large nose. The color of her eyes the 
 informant did not know, for she had only seen the lady in the 
 street as she went in or out. This confusing remark was added. 
 The woman had almost recognized Mrs. Mansion when she 
 hael called with her husband lately, but she had kept her veil 
 d(»wn. Her residence, before she came to Hoxton. was quite 
 unknown to this next-door neighbor, and Edward could get no 
 manner of clue to it from any other source. 
 
 Owen reached the church door a few minutes before the l)ells 
 began chiming. Xobody was yet in the church, and he walked 
 round the aisles. Prom Cytherea's frcfjuent descripti«in oi how 
 ami where herself and others used to sit. he knew where to look 
 for Mansion's seat; and after two or three errors of examina- 
 tion he took up a prayer-book in which was written. "Eunice 
 Mansion." The book was nearly new, and the date of the 
 writing about a month earlier. One point was at any rate 
 established: that the woman living with Mansion was pre- 
 sented to the world as no other than his lawful wife. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 311 
 
 The quiet villagers of Carriford required no pew-opener in 
 their place of worship: natives and indwellers had their own 
 seats and strangers sat where they could. Grave took a seat 
 in the nave, on the north side, close behind a pillar dividing it 
 from the north aisle, which was completely allotted to Miss 
 Aldclyfife, her farmers and her retainers, Manston's pew being 
 in the midst of them. Owen's position on the other side of the 
 passage was a little in advance of Manston's seat, and so situ- 
 ated that by leaning forward he could look directly into the 
 face of any person sitting there, though, if he sat upright, he 
 was wholly hidden from such a one by the intervening pillar. 
 
 Aiming to keep his presence unknown to Manston if possible, 
 Owen sat without once turning his head during the entrance of 
 the congregation. A rustling of silk round by the north pas- 
 sage and into Manston's seat told him that some female had 
 entered there, and as it seemed from the accompaniment of 
 heavier footsteps, Manston was with her. 
 
 Immediately upon rising up he looked intently in that direc- 
 tion, and saw a lady standing at the end of the seat nearest 
 himself. Portions of Manston's figure appeared on the other 
 side of her. In two glances Graye read thus many of her char- 
 acteristics, and in the following order: 
 
 She was a tall woman. 
 
 She was broad at the shoulders. 
 
 She was roundly formed. 
 
 She was easily recognizable from the photograph ; but noth- 
 ing could be discerned of the color of her eyes. 
 
 With a preoccupied mind he withdrew into his nook, and 
 heard the service continued — only conscious of the fact that 
 in opposition to the suspicion which one odd circumstance had 
 bred in his sister concerning this woman, all ostensible and 
 ordinary proofs and probabilities tended to the opposite con- 
 clusion. There sat the genuine original of the portrait — could 
 he wish for more? Cytherea wished for more. Eunice Man- 
 ston's eyes w^ere blue, and it was necessary that this woman's 
 eyes should be blue also. 
 
 Unskilled labor wastes in beating against the bars ten times 
 the energy exerted by the practiced hand in the effective direc- 
 tion. Owen felt this to be the case in his own and Edward's 
 attempts to follow up the clue afforded them. Think as he 
 might, he could not think of a crucial test in the matter absorb- 
 
312 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 int^ him wmc m should possess the indispensable attribute — a 
 capability of bcinj^ applied privately, that in the event of its 
 I)n)ving: the lady to be the rij;htful owner of the naine she used, 
 lie might recede without oblo(]uy from an untenable position. 
 
 Hut to see Mrs. Manston's eyes from where he sat was im- 
 possible, and he could do nothing in the shape of a direct exam- 
 ination at present. Miss Aldclyffe had possibly recognized 
 him, but Mansion had not, and feeling that it was indispensable 
 to keep the purport of his visit a secret from the steward, he 
 thought it would be as well, too, to keep his presence in the 
 village a secret from him. at any rate till the day was over. 
 
 At the first opening of the doors, Grayc left the church and 
 wandered away into, the fields to ponder on another scheme. 
 I le could not call on I'^armcr Springrove, as he had intended, 
 until this matter was set at rest. Two hours intervened between 
 the morning and afternoon services. 
 
 This time had nearly expired before Owen had struck out 
 any line as to his method of proceeding, or could decide to run 
 the risk of calling at the Old House and asking to see Mrs. 
 Manston point-blank. But he had drawn near the place, and 
 was standing still in the public path, from which a partial view 
 of the frt^nt of the building could be obtained, when the bells 
 began chiming for afternoon service. While Graye paused, 
 t\\ o persons came from the front door of the half-hidden dwell- 
 ing, whom he presently saw to be Manston and his wife. 
 
 Manston was wearing his old garden-hat. and carried one of 
 the montlily magazines under his arm. Immediately they had 
 passed the gateway he branched off and went over the hill in a 
 direction away from the church, evidently intending to ramble 
 along, and read as the humor moved him. The lady mean- 
 while turned in the other direction, and went along the church 
 path. 
 
 Owen resolved to make something of this opportunity. He 
 hurried along toward the church, doubled round a sharp angle, 
 and came back upon the other path, by which Mrs. Manston 
 must arrive. 
 
 In about three minutes she appeared in sight without a veil, 
 lie discovered, as she drew nearer, a difficulty which had not 
 struck him at first — that it is not an easy matter to jxnrticularize 
 the color of a stranger's eyes in a merely casual encounter on 
 ■ j>ath out of doors. That Mrs. Manston must be brought 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 313 
 
 close to him, and not only so, but to look closely at him, if his 
 purpose were to be accomplished. 
 
 He adumbrated a plan. It might by chance be effectual: if 
 otherwise, it would not reveal his intention to her. 
 
 When !Mrs. Alanston was within speaking- distance, he went 
 up to her and said : 
 
 "Will you kindly tell me which turning will take me to Froo- 
 minster?" 
 
 "The second on the right," said Mrs. Manston. 
 
 Owen put on a blank look : he held his hand to his ear — con- 
 veying to the lady the idea that he was deaf. 
 
 She came closer and said more distinctly: 
 
 "The second turning on the right." 
 
 Owen flushed a little. He fancied he had beheld the revela- 
 tion he was in search of. But had his eyes deceived him? 
 
 Once more he used the ruse, still drawing nearer, and in- 
 timating by a glance that the trouble he gave her was very 
 distressing to him. 
 
 "How very deaf," she murmured. She exclaimed loudly: 
 
 "The second turning to the right." 
 
 She had advanced her face to within a foot of his own, and 
 in speaking mouthed very emphatically, fixing her eyes intently 
 upon his. And now his first suspicion was indubitably con- 
 firmed. Her eyes were as black as midnight. 
 
 All this feigning was most distasteful to Graye. The riddle 
 having been solved, he unconsciously assumed his natural look 
 before she had withdrawn her face. She found him to be peer- 
 ing at her as if he would read her very soul — expressing with 
 his eyes, the notification of which, apart from emotion, the eyes 
 are most capable than any other, inquiry. 
 
 Her face changed its' expression — then its color. The natural 
 tint of the lighter portions sank to an ashy gray: the pink of her 
 cheeks grew purpler. It w^as the precise result which would 
 remain after blood had left the face of one whose skin was dark, 
 and artificially coated with pearl-powder and carmine. 
 
 She turned her head and moved away, murmuring a hasty 
 reply to Owen's farewell remark of "Good-day," and with a 
 kind of nervous twitch lifting her hand and smoothing her hair, 
 which was of a light-brown color. 
 
 "She wears false hair," he thought, "or has changed its color 
 artificially. Her true hair matched her eyes." 
 
314 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 And now, in spite of what Mr. P.rown's n.! ;".!)« )in iKui said 
 about nearly reeoj^nizing Mrs. Manston on her reeent visit — 
 whieli niij^ht have meant anything or nothing; in spite of the 
 pliotograph, and in spite of his previous increduHty; in conse- 
 quence of tlie verse, of her silence and backwardness at Ihc 
 visit to Hoxton with Manston. and of her appearance and dis- 
 tress at the present moment, Graye had a conviction that the 
 woman was an impostor. 
 
 What could be Manston's reason f»r such an astounding 
 trick he could by no stretch of imagination divine. 
 
 He changed his direction as soon as the woman was out of 
 sight, and plodded along the lanes homeward to Palchurch. 
 
 One new idea was suggested to him by his desire to allay 
 Cytherea's dread of being claimed, and by the difficulty of 
 believing that the first Mrs. Manston lost her life as suppi^sed. 
 notwithstanding the inc|uest and verdict. Was it possible that 
 the real Mrs. Manston. who was known to be a Philadelphian 
 by birth, had returned by the train to London, as the porter had 
 said, and then left the country under an assumed name, to 
 escape that worst kind of widowhood — the misery of being 
 wedded to a fickle, faithless, and truant husband? 
 
 In her complicated distress at the news brought by her 
 brother, Cytherea's thoughts at length reverted to lier friend, 
 the rector of Carriford. She told Owen of Mr. Raunham's 
 warm-hearted behavior toward herself, and of his strongly 
 expressed wish to aid her. 
 
 "He is not only a good but a sensible man. W'e seem to 
 want an old head on our side." 
 
 "And he is a magistrate," said Owen in a tone t^f concur- 
 rence. He thought, too, that no harm could come in confiding 
 in the rector, but there was a difficulty in bringing about the 
 confidence. He wished that his sister and himself migh* both 
 be present at an interview with Mr. Raunham. yet it would be 
 unwise for them to call on him together, in the sight of all tin 
 servants and parish of Carriford. 
 
 There could be no objection to their writing him a letter. 
 
 Xo sooner was the thought born than it was carried out. 
 They wrote to him at once, asking him to have the goodness 
 t > give them some advice they sadly needed, and begging that 
 he would accept their assurance that there was a real justifica- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 315 
 
 tion for the additional request they made — that instead of their 
 calHng upon him, he would any evening of the week come to 
 their cottage at Palchurch. 
 
 § 2. March the twentieth. Six to nine o'clock p. m. 
 
 Two evenings later, to the total disarrangement of his dinner 
 hour, Mr. Raunham appeared at Owen's door. His arrival was 
 hailed with genuine gratitude. The horse was tied to the 
 palings, and the rector ushered indoors and put into the easy- 
 chair. 
 
 Then Graye told him the whole story, reminding him that 
 their first suspicions had been of a totally different nature, and 
 that it was in endeavoring to obtain proof of their truth they 
 had stumbled upon marks which had surprised them into these 
 new uncertainties, thrice as marvelous as the first, yet more 
 prominent. 
 
 Cytherea's heart was so full of anxiety that it superinduced 
 a manner of confidence which was a death-blow to all formal- 
 ity. Mr. Raunham took her hand pityingly. 
 
 "It is a serious charge," he said, as a sort of original twig on 
 which his thoughts might precipitate themselves. 
 
 "Assuming for a moment that such a substitution was ren- 
 dered an easy matter by fortuitous events," he continued, "there 
 is this conclusion to be placed beside it — what earthly motive 
 can Mr. Manston have had which would be sufficiently power- 
 ful to lead him to run such a very great risk ? The most aban- 
 doned roue could not, at that particular crisis, have taken such 
 a reckless step for the mere pleasure of a new companion." 
 
 Owen had seen that difficulty about the motive; Cytherea 
 had not. 
 
 "Unfortunately for us," the rector resumed, "no more evidence 
 is to be obtained from the porter Chinney. I suppose you 
 know what went with him? He got to Liverpool and em- 
 barked, intending to work his way to America, but on the 
 passage he fell overboard and was drowned. But there is no 
 doubt of the truth of his confession — in fact, his conduct tends 
 to prove it true, and no moral doubt of the fact that Mrs. Man- 
 ston left Froominster by that morning's train. This being the 
 case, then, why did she take no notice of the advertisement — I 
 mean not necessarilv a friendh' notice, but from the information 
 
C16 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 it afForded her have rendered it impossible that she shouhl be 
 personified without her own connivance?" 
 
 "I think that argfuincnt is overtlirown." Grave said, "by my 
 earhcst assumj^tion of her hatred of him, weariness of the chain 
 which bounil her to him, and a resolve to begin the world anew. 
 Let's suppose she has married another man — somewhere 
 abroad, say; she would be silent for her own sake." 
 
 "You've hit the only genuine possibility," said Mr. Raun- 
 liam, tapping his finger ui>')n his knee. "That would decided)} 
 dispose of the second difficulty. But his motive would be as 
 mysterious as ever." 
 
 Cytherea's pictured dreads would not allow her mind to fol- 
 low their conversation "She's burned," she said. "Oh, yes; 1 
 fear — I fear she is!" 
 
 "I don't think we can seriously believe that now. after what 
 has hai)pened," said the rector. 
 
 Still straining her thought toward the worst, "Then, per- 
 haps, the first ^Irs. Manston was not his wife," she returned: 
 "and then I should be his wife just the same, shouldn't I?" 
 
 "They were married safely enough," said Owen. "There i~ 
 abundance of circumstantial evidence to prove that." 
 
 "Upon the whole," said Mr. Raunham, "I should advise your 
 asking in a straightforward way for legal proof from the stew- 
 ard that the present woman is really his original wife — a thing 
 which — to my mind — you should have done at the outset." He 
 turned to Cytherea kindly, and asked her what made her give 
 up her husband so unceremoniously. 
 
 She could not tell the rector of her aversion to Manston. and 
 of her unquenched love for Edward. 
 
 "Your terrified state, no doubt," he said, answering for her. 
 in the manner of those accustomed to the pulpit. "But int.' 
 such a solemn compact as marriage, all important consider.! 
 tions, both legally and morally, enter; it was your duty to ha\ 
 seen everything clearly proved. Doubtless Mr. Manston is 
 prepared with proofs, but as it concerns nobody but yourself 
 that her identity should be publicly established (and Ijy y.nir 
 absenteeism you act as if you were satisfied), he has not troubled 
 to exhibit them. Nobody else has taken the trouble to prove 
 what does not afTect them in the least — that's the way of the 
 world always. You. who should have required all things to be 
 made clear, ran away." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 317 
 
 "That was partly my doing," said Owen. 
 
 The same explanation — her want of love for Manston — 
 applied here, too, but she shunned the revelation. 
 
 "But never mind," added the rector; "it was all the greater 
 credit to your womanhood, perhaps. I say, then, get your 
 brodier to write a line to Mr. Manston, saying you wish to be 
 satisfied that all is legally clear (in case you should want to 
 marry again, for instance, and I have no doubt that you will 
 be). Or if you would rather, I'll write myself?" 
 
 "Oh, no, sir, no," pleaded Cytherea, beginning to blanch, 
 and breathing quickly. "Please don't say anything. Let me 
 live here with Owen. I am so afraid it will turn out that I shall 
 have to go to Knapwater and be his wife, and I don't want to. 
 Do conceal what we have told you. Let him continue his 
 deception — it is much the best for me." 
 
 Mr. Raunham at length divined that her love for ]Manston, 
 if it had ever existed, had transmuted itself into a very different 
 feeling now. 
 
 "At any rate," he said, as he took his leave and mounted his 
 mare, "I will see about it. Rest content. Miss Graye, and de- 
 pend upon it that I will not lead you into dif^culty." 
 
 "Conceal it," she still pleaded. 
 
 "We'll see — but of course I must do my duty." 
 
 "No — don't do your duty!" She looked up at him through 
 the gloom, illuminating her own face and eyes v.ith the candle 
 she held. 
 
 "I will consider, then," said ]\Ir. Raunham, sensibly moved. 
 He turned his horse's head, bade them a warm adieu, and left 
 the door. 
 
 The rector of Carriford trotted homeward under the cold and 
 clear March sky, its countless stars fluttering like bright birds. 
 He was unconscious of the scene. Recovering from the efifect 
 of Cytherea's voice and glance of entreaty, he laid the subject of 
 the interview clearly before himself. 
 
 The suspicions of Cytherea and Owen were honest, and had 
 foundation — that he must own. 
 
 Was he — a clergyman, magistrate, and conscientious man — 
 justified in yielding to Cytherea's importunities to keep silence, 
 because she dreaded the possibility of a return to Manston? 
 
 Was she wise in her recjuest? Holding her present belief, 
 
318 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 and will) no definite evidence cither way, she could, for one 
 thint^. never conscientiously marry any one else. 
 
 Suppctse that Cytherea were Manston's wife — i. e.. that the 
 first wife was really burned? The adultery of Manston would 
 be proved, and Mr. Raunham thought, cruelty sufficient to 
 brinpf tlie case within the moaning of the statute. 
 
 Suppose the new woman was, as stated, Mr. Manston's 
 restored wife? Cytherea was perfectly safe as a single woman 
 whose marriage had been void. 
 
 And if it turned out that, though this woman was not Man- 
 ston's wife, his wife was still living, as Owen had suggested, 
 in America (5r elsewhere, Cytherea was safe. 
 
 The first supposition opened up the worst contingency. W'^as 
 she really safe as Manston's wife? 
 
 Doubtful. But however that might be, the gentle, defense- 
 less girl, whom it seemed nobody's business to help or defend, 
 should be put in a track to proceed against this man. 
 
 She had but one life, and the superciliousness with which 
 all the world now regarded her, should be compensated for in 
 some measure by the man whose carelessness — to set him in 
 the best light — had caused it. 
 
 Mr. Raunham felt more and more positively that his duty 
 must be done. An inquiry must be made into the matter. 
 
 Immediately on reaching home he sat down and wrote a 
 plain and friendly letter to Mr. Manston. and dispatched it at 
 once to him by hand. Then he flung himself back in his chair, 
 and went on with his meditation. 
 
 Was there anything in the suspicion? There could be 
 nothing, surely. Nothing is done by a clever man without a 
 motive, and what conceivable motive could Manston have for 
 such abnormal cotiduct? Corinthian that he was. who had 
 preyed on virginity like St. George's dragon, he would never 
 have been absurd enough to venture on such a course for the 
 possession alone of the woman — there was no reason for it — 
 she was inferior to Cytherea in every respect, physical and 
 mental. 
 
 On the other hand it seemed rather odd. when he analyzed 
 the action, that a woman who deliberately hifl her.self from her 
 husband for more than a twelvemonth should be broiight back- 
 by a mere advertisement. In fact, the whole business had 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 319 
 
 /orked almost too smoothly and effectually for unpremeditated 
 equence. It was too much like the indiscriminate righting of 
 verything at the end of an old play. 
 
 And there was that curious business of the keys and watch, 
 ier way of accounting for their being left behind by forget- 
 ulness had always seemed to him rather forced. The only 
 mforccd explanation was that suggested by the newspaper 
 writers — that she left them behind on purpose to blind people 
 IS to her escape, a motive which would have clashed with the 
 )Ossibility of her being fished back by an advertisement, as the 
 )resent v/oman had been. 
 
 Again, there were the two charred bones. 
 
 He shuffled the books and papers in his study, and walked 
 ibout the room, restlessly musing on the same subject. The 
 )arlor-maid entered. 
 
 "Can young Mr. Springrove from London see you to-night, 
 ;ir?" 
 
 "Young Mr. Springrove?'' said the rector, surprised, 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Yes, of course he can see me. Tell him to come in." 
 
 Edward came so impatiently into the room as to show that 
 :he few short moments his announcement had occupied had 
 -yeen irksome to him. He stood in the doorway with the same 
 3lack bag in his hand, and the same old gray cloak on his 
 shoulders, that he had worn fifteen months earlier when re- 
 lurning on the night of the fire. This appearance of his con- 
 t^eyed a true impression ; he had become a stagnant man. But 
 le was excited now. 
 
 "I have this moment come from London," he said, as the door 
 tv^as closed behind him. 
 
 The prophetic insight which so strangely accompanies critical 
 experiences prompted Mr. Raunham's reply. 
 
 "About the Grayes and Manston?" 
 
 "Yes. That woman is not Airs. Manston." 
 
 "Prove it." 
 
 "I can prove that she is somebody else — that her name is 
 Anne Seaway." 
 
 "And are their suspicions true indeed?" 
 
 "And I can do what's more to the purpose at present." 
 
 "Suggest ]\Ianston's motive?" 
 
 "Only suggest it, remember. But my assumption fits so 
 
 21 
 
320 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 perfectly with the facts that have ])ccn secretly unearthed and 
 conveyed to me that I can hardly conceive of another." 
 
 There was in Edward's bearing that entire unconsciousness 
 of himself which, natural to wild animals, only prevails in a 
 sensitive man at moments of extreme intcntness. The rector 
 saw that he had no trivial story to communicate, whatever the 
 story was. 
 
 "Sit down." said Mr. Raunham. "My mind has been on the 
 stretch all the evening- to form the slightest guess at such an 
 object, and all to no purpose — entirely to no purpose. Have 
 you said anything to Owen Graye?" 
 
 "Nothing — nor to anybody. I could not trust to the eflfect 
 a letter might have upon yourself either: the intricacy of tiie 
 case brings me to this interview." 
 
 While Springrove had been speaking the two had sat down 
 together. The conversation, hitherto distinct to every corner 
 of the room, was carried on now in tones so low as to be 
 scarcely audible to the interlocutors, and in phrases which hesi- 
 tated to complete themselves. Three-quarters of an hour 
 passed. Then Edward arose, came out of the rector's study, 
 and again flung his cloak around him. Instead of going thence 
 homeward he went first to the Carriford-Road station with a 
 telegram, having dispatched which he proceeded to his father's 
 house for the first time since his arrival in the village. 
 
 § 3. From nine to ten o\-Iock p. tn. 
 
 The next presentation is the interior of the Old House on 
 the evening of the preceding section. The steward was sitting 
 by his parlor fire, and had been reading the letter arrived from 
 the rector}-. Ojiposite to him sat the woman known to the 
 village and neigiil>orhood as Mrs. Manston. 
 
 "Tilings are looking desperate with us," he said gloomily. 
 His gloom was not that of the hypochondriac, but the legiti- 
 mate gloom which has its origin in a syllogism. As he uttered 
 the words he handed the letter to her. 
 
 "I almost expected some such news as this," she replied, in 
 a tone of much greater indifference. "I knew suspicion luikcd 
 in the eyes of that young man who stared at me so in the church 
 path: I could have sworn it." 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 321 
 
 Mansion did not answer for some time. His face was worn 
 and haggard: latterly his head had not been carried so up- 
 rightly as of old. "if they prove you to be — who you are. 
 . . . . Yes, if they do," he murmured. 
 
 'They must not find that out," she said in a positive voice, 
 and looking at him. "But supposing they do, the trick does 
 not seem to me to be so serious as to justify that wretched, 
 miserable, horrible look of yours. It makes my flesh creep: 
 it is perfectly deathlike." 
 
 He did not reply, and she continued, "If they say and prove 
 that Eunice is indeed living — and dear, you know she is, she 
 is sure to come back." 
 
 This remark seemed to awaken and irritate him to speech. 
 Again, as he had done a hundred times during their residence 
 together, he categorized the events connected with the fire at 
 the Three Tranters. He dwelt on every incident of that night's 
 history, and endeavored, with an anxiety which was extraor- 
 dinary under the apparent circumstances, to prove that his 
 wnfe must, by the very nature of things, have perished in the 
 flames. 
 
 She arose from her seat, crossed the hearth-rug, and set her- 
 self to soothe him: then she whispered that she was still as 
 unbelieving as ever. "Come, supposing she escaped — just sup- 
 posing she escaped — where is she?" coaxed the lady. 
 
 "Why are you so curious continually?" said Manston. 
 
 "Because I am a woman and want to know. Now where is 
 she?" 
 
 "In the Flying Isle of San Borandan." 
 
 "Witty cruelty is the crudest of any. Ah, well — if she is in 
 England she will come back.'*', 
 
 "She is not in England." 
 
 "But she will come back?" 
 
 "No, she won't. . . . Come, madam," he said, arousing 
 himself, "I shall not answer any more questions." 
 
 "Ah — ah — ah — she is not dead," the woman murmured again 
 poutingly. 
 
 "She is, I tell you." 
 
 "I don't think so, love." 
 
 "She was burned, I tell you," he exclaimed. 
 
 "Now, to please me, admit the bare possibility of her being 
 alive — just the possibility." 
 
322 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Oh, yes — to please you I will admit that," he said quickly. 
 "Ves, I «diiiit the i>ossibility of her bein{^ alive to please you." 
 
 She looked at him in utter perple.xity. The words could only 
 have 'been said in jest, and yet they seemed to savor of a tone 
 the farthest removed from jesting. There was his face plain to 
 her eyes, but no information of any kind was to be read there. 
 
 "Is is only natural that I should be curious," she mummred 
 pettishly, "if I resemble her so much as you say I do." 
 
 "You arc handsomer." he said, "tlnnigh you arc about her 
 own height and size. But don't worry yourself. You must 
 know that you are body and soul united with me, though you 
 are but my housekeeper." 
 
 She bridled a little at the remark. "Wife." she said, "most 
 certainly wife, since you cannot dismiss me without losing your 
 character and position and incurring heavy penalties." 
 
 "I own it — it was well said, tiiough mistakenly — very mis- 
 takenly." 
 
 "Don't riddle to me about mistakenly and such dark things. 
 Xow what was your motive, dearest — in running the risk of 
 having me here?" 
 
 "Your beauty." he said. 
 
 "She thanks you much for the compliment, but will not take 
 it. Come, what was your motive?" 
 
 "Your wit." 
 
 "No, no; not my wit. Wit would have made a wife of me 
 by this time instead of what I am." 
 
 "Your virtue." 
 
 "Or virtue either." 
 
 "I tell you it was your beauty — really." 
 
 "iUit I cannot help seeing and hearing, and if what people 
 say is true. I am not nearly so good-looking as Cytherea, and 
 several years older." 
 
 The aspect of Mansion's face at these words from her was 
 so confirmaton,' of her hint, that his forced reply of "Oh, no," 
 tended to develop her chagrin. 
 
 "Merc liking, or love for me," she resumed, "would not have 
 sprung up all of a sudden, as your pretended passion did. You 
 had been to London several times between the time of the fire 
 and your marriage with Cytherea — you had never visited mr. 
 or thought of my existence, or cared tliat I was out of a situa- 
 tion and poor. P.ut the week after you married her and was 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 323 
 
 separated from her, ofif you rush to make love to me — not first 
 to me either, for you went to several places — " 
 
 "No, not several places." 
 
 "Yes, you told me so yourself — that you went first to the only 
 lodging in which your wife had been known as Mrs. Manston, 
 and when you found that the lodging-house keeper had gone 
 away and died, and that nobody else in the street had any 
 definite ideas as to your wife's personal appearance, you came 
 and proposed the arrangement we carried out — that I should 
 personate her. Your taking all this trouble shows that some- 
 thing more serious than love had to do with the matter." 
 
 "Humbug — what trouble after all did I take? When I 
 found Cytherea would not stay with me after the wedding I 
 was much put out at being left alone again. Was that un- 
 natural?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And those favoring accidents you mention — that nobody 
 knew my first wife — seemed an arrangement of Providence for 
 our mutual benefit, and merely perfected a half-formed impulse 
 — that I should call you my first wife to escape the scandal 
 that would have arisen if you had come here as anything else." 
 
 "My love, that story won't do. If Mrs. Manston was burned, 
 Cytherea, whom you love better than me, could have been 
 compelled to live with you as your lawful wife. If she was not 
 burned, why should you run the risk of her turning up again 
 at any moment and exposing your substitution of me, and 
 ruining your name and prospects?" 
 
 "Why — because I might have loved you well enough to run 
 the risk (assuming her not to be burned, which I deny)." 
 
 "No — you would have run the risk the other way. You 
 would rather have risked her finding you with Cytherea as a 
 second wife, than with me as a personator of herself — the first 
 one." 
 
 "You came easiest to hand — remember that." 
 
 "Not so very easy, either, considering the labor you took 
 to teach me your first wife's history. All about how she was 
 a native of Philadelphia. Then making me read up the guide- 
 book to Philadelphia, and details of American life and man- 
 ners, in case the birthplace and history of your wife, Eunice, 
 should ever become known in this neighborhood — unlikely as 
 it was. Ah! and then about tlie handwriting of hers, that I 
 
324 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 had to imitate, and the dyeing my hair, and rouging to make 
 the transformation complete? You mean to say that that was 
 taking less trouble than there would have been in arranging 
 events to make Cytherea believe herself your wife, and live with 
 you ?" 
 
 "You were a needy adventuress, who would dare anything 
 for a new pleasure and an easy life — and I was fool enough to 
 give in to you — " 
 
 "Good heavens above! — did I ask you to insert those adver- 
 tisements for your old wife, and to make me answer it as if I 
 was she? Did I ask you to send me the letter for me to copy 
 and send back to you when the third advertisement appeared — 
 purporting to come from the long-lost wife, and giving a de- 
 tailed histt:)ry of her escape and subsccjucnt life — all wliich you 
 have invented yourself? You deluded me into loving you, 
 and then enticed me here! Ah. and this is another thing. How 
 did you know the real wife wouldn't answer it, and upset all 
 your plans?" 
 
 "Because I knew she was burned." 
 
 "Why didn't you force Cytherea to come back then? Xow, 
 my love, I have caught you, and you may just as well tell 
 first as last, what was your motive in having me here as your 
 first wife?" 
 
 "Silence!" he exclaimed. 
 
 She was silent for the space of two minutes, and then per- 
 sisted in going on to mutter, "And why was it that Miss Ald- 
 clyflfe allowed her favorite young lady, Cythie, to be overthrown 
 and supplanted without an expostulation or any show of 
 sympathy? Do you know I often think you exercise a secret 
 power over Miss Aldclyffe. And she always shuns me as if I 
 shared the power, A poor, ill-used creature like me sharing 
 power, indeed." 
 
 "She thinks you arc Mrs. Mansion." 
 
 "That wouldn't make her avoid me." 
 
 "Yes it would." he exclaimed impatiently. "I wish I was 
 dead — dead!" He had jumped up from his seat in uttering the 
 words, and now walked wearily to the end of the room. Com- 
 ing back more decisively, he locked in her face. 
 
 "We must leave this place if Raunham suspects what I think 
 lie does," he said. "The request of Cytherea and her brother 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 325 
 
 may simply be for a satisfactory proof, to make her feel legally 
 free — but it may mean more." 
 
 "What may it mean?" 
 
 "How should I know?" 
 
 "Well, well, never mind, old boy," she said, approaching him 
 to make up the quarrel. "Don't be so alarmed — anybody 
 would think that you were the woman and I the man. Suppose 
 they do find out what I am — we can go away from here and 
 keep house as usual. People will say of you, 'His first wife was 
 burned to death' (or ran away to the colonies, as the case may 
 be). 'He married a second, and deserted her for Anne Sea- 
 way.' A very ever)'day case — nothing so horrible after all." 
 
 He made an impatient movement. "Whichever way we do it, 
 nobody must know that you are not my wife Eunice. And now 
 I must think about arranging matters." 
 
 Manston then retired to his office, and shut himself up for the 
 remainder of the evening. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF A NIGilT AND DAY. 
 § I . Miircli the i7Ct-nty-firsi. Mornini^. 
 
 The next morniiiL;- the steward went out as usual. He shortly 
 tokl his companion Anne that he had almost matured their 
 scheme, and that they would enter upon the details of it when he 
 came home at v\\£([\\.. The fortunate fact that the rector's letter 
 did not require an immediate answer would give him time to 
 consider. 
 
 Anne Seaway then began her duties in the house. Besides 
 daily superintending the cook and housemaid, otie of these 
 duties was. at rare intervals, to dust Manston's office with her 
 own hands, a servant being supposed to disturb the books and 
 papers unnecessarily. 
 
 She softly wandered from table to shelf with the duster in her 
 hand, afterward standing in the middle of the room, and 
 glancing around to discover if any noteworthy collection of 
 dust had still escaped her. 
 
 Her eye fell upon a faint layer which rested upon the ledge 
 <»f an oid-fashioned chestnut cabinet of French Renaissance 
 workmanship, placed in a recess by the fireplace. At a height 
 of about four feet from the floor the upper portion of the front 
 receded, forming the ledge alluded to. on which opened at each 
 end two small doors, the center space between them being filled 
 out by a panel of similar size, making the third of three 
 squares. 
 
 The dust on the ledge was nearly on a level with the woman's 
 eve, and though insignificant in quantity showed itself dis- 
 tinctly on account of this obliquity of vision. Now opposite 
 the central panel, concentric quarter-circles were traced in the 
 deposited film, expressing to her that this panel, too. was a door 
 like the others; that it had lately been opened, and had skimmed 
 tlie dust with its lower q(\"c. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 327 
 
 At last, then, her curiosity was shghtly rewarded. For the 
 right of the matter was that Anne had been incited to this ex- 
 ploration of Manston's office rather by a wish to know the 
 reason of his long seclusion here, after the arrival of the rector's 
 letter, and their subsequent discourse, than by any immediate 
 desire for cleanliness. 
 
 Still, there would have been nothing remarkable to Anne 
 in this sight but for one recollection. Manston had once 
 casually told her that each of the two side lockers included half 
 the middle space, the panel of which did not open, and was only 
 put in for symmetry. 
 
 It was possible that he had opened this compartment by 
 candle-light the preceding night, or he would have seen the 
 marks in the dust, and effaced them, that he might not be 
 proved guilty of telling her an untruth. 
 
 She balanced herself on one foot and stood pondering. She 
 considered that it was very vexing and unfair in him to refuse 
 her all knowledge of his remaining secrets, under the peculiar 
 circumstances of her connection with him. She went close to 
 the cabinet. As there was no keyhole the door must be capable 
 of being opened by the unassisted hand. 
 
 The circles in the dust told her at which edge to apply her 
 force. Here she pulled with the tips of her fingers, but the 
 panel would not come forward. 
 
 She fetched a chair and looked over the top of the cabinet, 
 but no bolt, knob, or spring was to be seen. 
 
 "Oh, never mind," she said with indifiference ; "I'll ask him 
 about it, and he will tell me." Down she came and turned away. 
 Then looking back again she thought it was absurd such a 
 trifle should puzzle her. She retraced her steps, and opened a 
 drawer beneath the ledge of the cabinet, pushing in her hand 
 and feeling about on the under side of the board. 
 
 Here she found a small round sinking, and pressed her finger 
 into it. Nothing came of the pressure. She withdrew her hand 
 and looked at the tip of her finger: it was marked with the im- 
 press of the circle, and in addition, a line ran across it dia- 
 metrically. 
 
 ''How stupid of me — it is the head of a screw." Whatever 
 mysterious contrivance .had originally existed for opening the 
 puny cupboard of the cabinet, it had at some time been broken, 
 
328 DESPEHATH REMEDIES. 
 
 and this rough substitute provided. Stimulated curiosity 
 would not allow her to recede now. She fetched a turnscrew, 
 withdrew the screw, pulled the door open with a penknife, and 
 found inside a cavity about ten inches square. The cavity con- 
 tained : 
 
 Letters from different women, with unknown signatures, 
 Christian names only (surnames l)eing despised in Paphos). 
 
 Letters from his wife Eunice. 
 
 Letters from Anne herself, including that she wrote in answer 
 to his advertisement. 
 
 A small pocket-book. 
 
 Sundry scraps of paper. 
 
 The letters from the strange women with pet names, she 
 glanced carelessly through, and then put them aside. They 
 were too similar to her own regretted delusion, and curiosity 
 requires contrast to excite it. 
 
 The letters from his wife were next examined. They were 
 dated back as far as Eunice's first meeting with Manston, and 
 the early ones before their marriage contained the usual pretty 
 effusions of women at such a period of their existence. Some 
 little time after he had made her his wife, and when he had 
 come to Knapwater, the series commenced again, and now 
 their contents arrested her attention more forcibly. She closed 
 the cabinet, carried tb.e letters into the parlor, reclined herself 
 on the sofa, and carefully perused them in the order of their 
 dates. 
 
 "John Street, October 17th, 1864. 
 "My Dearest Husband: 
 
 "I received your hurried line of yesterday, and was of course 
 content with it. But why don"t you tell me your exact address 
 instead of that 'Post Office, Creston'? This matter is all a 
 myster>' to me, and I ought to be told ever>' detail. I cannot 
 fancy it is the same kind of occupation you have been used to 
 hitherto. Your conmiand that I am to stay here awiiile until 
 you can 'see how tilings look' and can arrange to send for me, 
 I nujst necessarily abide by. P)Ut if, as you say. a married man 
 would have been rejected by the person who engaged you. and 
 that hence my existence must be kept a secret until you have 
 secured your position, why did you think of going at all? 
 
 "The truth is. this keeping our marriage a secret is trouble- 
 some, vexing, and wearisome to me. I see the poorest woman 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 329 
 
 in the street bearing her husband's name openly — living with 
 him in the most matter-of-fact ease, and why shouldn't 1? I 
 wish I was back again in Liverpool. 
 
 "To-day I bought a gray waterproof cloak. I think it is a 
 little too long for me, but it was cheap for one of such a quality. 
 The weather is gusty and dreary, and till this moniing I had 
 hardly set foot outside the door since you left. Please do tell 
 me when I am to come. 
 
 "Very affectionately yours, 
 
 "Eunice." 
 
 "John Street, October 25th, 1864. 
 "My Dear Husband: 
 
 "Why don't you write? Do you hate me? I have not had 
 the heart to do anything this last week. That I, your wife, 
 should be in this strait, and my husband well to do! I have 
 been obliged to leave my first lodging for debt — among other 
 things they charged me for a lot of brandy which I am quite 
 sure I did not taste. Then I went to Camberwell and was 
 found out by them. I went away privately from thence, and 
 changed my name the second time. I am now Mrs. Rondley, 
 But the new lodging is the wretchedest and dearest I ever set 
 foot in, and I left it after being there only a day. I am now at 
 No. 20 in the same street that you left me in originally. All 
 last night the sash of my window rattled so dreadfully that I 
 could not sleep, but I had not energy enough to get out of 
 bed to stop it. This morning I have been walking — I don't 
 know how far — but far enough to make my feet ache. I have 
 been looking at the outside of two or three of the theaters, but 
 they seem forbidding if I regard them with the eye of an actress 
 in search of an engagement. Though you said I was to think 
 no more of the stage, I believe you would not care if you found 
 me there. But I am not an actress by nature, and art will never 
 make me one. I am too timid and retiring. I was intended 
 for a cottager's wife. I certainly shall not try to go on the 
 boards again while I am in tliis strange place. The idea of 
 being brought on as far as London and then left here alone! 
 Why didn't you leave me in Liverpool? Perhaps you thought 
 I might have told somebody that my real name was Mrs. ALan- 
 ston. As if I had a living friend to whom I could impart it — 
 no such good fortune! In fact my nearest friend is no nearer 
 
330 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 than what most people would call a stranger. But perhaps I 
 ought to tell you that a week before I wrote my last letter to 
 you, after wishing that my uncle and aunt in Philadelphia (the 
 only near relatives I had) were still alive. I suddenly res-^lved 
 to send a line to my cousin James, who I believe is still living 
 in that neighborhood. He has never seen me since we were 
 babies together. I did not tell him of my marriage, because 
 I thought you might not like it, and I gave my real maiden 
 name, and ai; address at the postoffice here. But God knows 
 if the letter will ever reach him. 
 
 "Do write mc an answer, and send something. 
 
 "Your affectionate wife, 
 
 "Eunice." 
 
 "Friday, October 28th. 
 "My Dear Husband: 
 
 "The order for ten pounds has just come, and I am tndy glad 
 to get it. But why will you write so bitterly? Ah — well, if 1 
 had only had the money, I should have been on my way to 
 America by this time, so don't think I want to bore you of my 
 own free-will. Who can you have met with at that new place? 
 Remember, I say this in no malignant tone, but certainly the 
 facts go to prove that you h.ave deserted me! You are incon- 
 stant — I know it. Oh, why are you so? Now I have lost you. 
 I love you in spite of your neglect. I am weakly fond — that's 
 my nature. I feel that upon the whole my life has becTi 
 wasted. I know there is another woman supplanting me in 
 your heart — yes, I know it. Come to me — do come. 
 
 "Eunice." 
 
 "41 Charles Square, Hcxton. November 19th. 
 "Dear Aeneas: 
 
 "Here I am back again after my visit. W'liy should you havr 
 been so enraged at my finding your exact address? Any 
 woman would have tried to do it — you know she would have. 
 And no woman would have lived under assumed names so long 
 as I did. I repeat that I did not call myself Mrs. Mansion 
 until I came to this lodging at the beginning of this month — 
 what could you expect? 
 
 "A helpless creature T, had not fortune favored Tue unex- 
 P'.'ctedly. Banished as T was from your house at dawn. I did 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 331 
 
 not suppose the indignity was about to lead to important re- 
 sults. But in crossing- the park I overheard the conversation 
 of a young man and woman who had also risen early. I 
 believe her to be the girl who has won you away from me. 
 Well, their conversation concerned you and Miss AldclyfTe, 
 very peculiarly. The remarkable thing is that you yourself, 
 without knowing it, told me of what, added to their conversa- 
 tion, completely reveals a secret to me that neither of you 
 understand. Two negatives never made such a telling positive 
 before. One clue more, and you would see it. A single con- 
 sideration prevents my revealing it here — just one doubt as to 
 whether your ignorance was real, and was not feigned to 
 deceive niQ. Civility now, please. 
 
 "Eunice." 
 
 "41 Charles Square, 
 "Tuesday, November 22d. 
 "My Darling Husband: 
 
 "Monday will suit me excellently for coming. I have acted 
 exactly up to your instructions, and have sold my rubbish at 
 the broker's in the next street. All this movement and bustle 
 is delightful to me after the weeks of monotony I have endured. 
 It is a relief to wish the place good-by — London always has 
 seemed so much more foreign to me than Liverpool. The 
 midday train on Monday will do nicely for me. I shall be 
 anxiously looking out for you Sunday night. 
 
 "I hope so much that you are not angry with me for writing 
 to Miss AldclyfTe. You are not, dear, are you? Forgive me. 
 
 "Your loving wife, 
 
 "Eunice." 
 
 This was the last of the letters from the wife to the husband. 
 One other, in Airs. Manston's handwriting and in the same 
 packet, was differently addressed. 
 
 "Three Tranters Inn, 
 "Carriford, near Froominster, 
 
 "November 28th, 1864. 
 "Dear Cousin James: 
 
 "Thank you indeed for answering my letter so promptly. 
 When I called at the postofifice yesterday I did not in the least 
 tliink there would be one. But I must leave this subject. I 
 
332 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 write again at once, under the strangest and saddest conditions 
 it is possible to conceive. 
 
 "I did not tell you in my last that I was a married woman. 
 Don't blame me — it was my husband's influence. I hardly 
 know where to begin my ston.-. I had been living apart from 
 him for a time — then he sent for me (this was last week) 
 and I was glad to go to him. Then this is what he did. He 
 promised to fetch me, and did not — leaving me to do the 
 journey alone. He promised to meet me at the station here: 
 he did not. I went on through the darkness to his house, and 
 found his door locked and himself away from home. I have 
 been obliged to come here, and I write to you in a strange room 
 in a strange village inn! I choose the present moment to write 
 to drive away my misery. Sorrow seems a sort of pleasure 
 when you detail it on paper — poor pleasure though. 
 
 "But this is what I want to know — and I am ashamed to 
 tell it. I would gladly do as you say, and come to you as a 
 housekeeper, but I have not the money even for a steerage 
 passage. James, do you want me badly enough — do you pity 
 me enough to send it? I could manage to subsist in London 
 upon the proceeds of my sale for another month or six weeks. 
 Will you send it to the same address at the postoffice? But 
 how do I know that you " 
 
 Thus the letter ended. From creases in the paper it was 
 plain that the writer, having got so far had become dissatisfied 
 with her production, and had crumpled it in her hand. Was it 
 to write another, or not to write at all? 
 
 The next thing Anne Seaway perceived was that the frag- 
 mentar)' story she had coaxed out of Manston. to the effect 
 that his wife had left England for America, might be truthful, 
 according to two of these letters, corroborated by the evidence 
 of the railway porter. 
 
 And yet. at first, he had sworn in a passion tliat his wife was 
 most certainly consumed in the fire. 
 
 If she had been burned, this letter, written in her bedroom, 
 and probably thrust into her pocket when she relinquished 
 it, would have been burned with her. Nothing was surer than 
 that. 
 
 Why then did he sav she was burned, and never show Anne 
 herself this letter? 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 333 
 
 The question suddenly raised a new and much stranger 
 one — kindUng a burst of amazement in her. How did Man- 
 ston become possessed of this letter? 
 
 That fact of possession was certainly the most remarkable 
 revelation of all in connection with this epistle, and perhaps 
 had something to do with his reason for never showing it to 
 her. 
 
 She knew by several proofs, that before his marriage with 
 Cytherea, and up to the time of the porter's confession, Man- 
 ston believed — honestly believed — that Cytherea would be his 
 lawful wife, and hence, of course, that his wife Eunice was 
 dead. 
 
 So that no communication could possibly have passed be- 
 tween his wife and himself from the first moment that he 
 believed her dead on the night of the fire to the day of his 
 wedding. And yet he had that letter. 
 
 How soon afterward could they have communicated with 
 each other? 
 
 The existence of the letter — as much as, or more than its con- 
 tents — implying that Mrs. Manston was not burned, his belief in 
 that calamity must have terminated at the moment he obtained 
 possession of the letter, if no earlier. 
 
 Was then the only solution to the riddle that Anne could 
 discern, the true one? — that he had communicated with his wife 
 somewhere about the commencement of Anne's residence with 
 him, or at any time since? 
 
 It was the most unlikely thing on earth that a woman who 
 had forsaken her husband should countenance his scheme to 
 personify her — whether she were in America, in London, or 
 in the neighborhood of Knapwater. 
 
 Then came the old and harassing question, what was Man- 
 ston's real motive in risking his name on the deception he was 
 practicing as regarded Anne? It could not be, as he had 
 always pretended, mere passion. Her thoughts had reverted 
 to Mr. Raunham's letter, asking for proofs of her identity with 
 the original Mrs. Manston. She could see no loophole of 
 escape for the man who supported her. True, in her own 
 estimation, the worst alternative was not so ver}^ bad after all — 
 the getting the name of libertine, a possible appearance in the 
 divorce or some other court of law, and a question of damages. 
 Such an exposure might hinder his worldly progress for some 
 
 22 
 
334 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 time. Yet to him this ahornativc was, apparently, terrible as 
 death itself. 
 
 She restored the letters to their hidingf-place, scanned anew 
 the other letters and memoranda, from which she could gain 
 no fresh information, fastened up the cabinet, and left every- 
 thinj:^ in its former condition. 
 
 Her mind was ill at ease. More than ever she wished that 
 she had never seen Manston. Where the person suspected of 
 mysterious moral obliquity is the possessor of great physical 
 and intellectual attractions, the mere sense of incongruity adds 
 an extra shudder to dread. The man's strange bearing terrified 
 Anne as it had terrified Cytherea; for with all the 
 woman Anne's faults, she had not descended to such 
 depths of depravity as to willingly participate in crime. 
 She had not even known that a living wife was being 
 displaced till her arrival at Knapwater put retread out of 
 the question, and had looked upon personation simply as a 
 mode of subsistence a degree better than toiling in poverty 
 and alone, after a bustling and somewhat pampered life as 
 housekeeper in a gay mansion. 
 
 " — Non ilia colo calathlsve Minervae 
 Foemineas assueta manus." 
 
 § 2. Afternoon. 
 
 Mr. Raunham and Edward Springrove had by this time set 
 in motion a machinery which they hoped to find working out 
 important results. 
 
 The rector was restless and full of meditation all the foUov, 
 ing morning. It was plain, even to the servants about him, 
 that Springrove's communication wore a deeper complexiiMi 
 than any that had been made to the old magistrate for many 
 months or years past. The fact was that having arrived at 
 the stage of existence in which the difficult intellectual feat of 
 suspending one's judgment becomes possible, he was now 
 putting it in practice, though not without the penalty of 
 watchful effort. 
 
 It was not till Ihe afternoon that he detennined to call "i 
 his relative, Miss AldclyfFe, and cautiously probe her know ' 
 edge of the subject occupying him so thoroughly. Cythcr- 
 he knew. v>n> still beloved bv this solitarv woman. Mi 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 335 
 
 Aldclyffe had made several private inquiries concerning her 
 old companion, and there was ever a sadness in her tone when 
 the young- lady's name was mentioned, which showed that 
 from whatever cause the elder Cytherea's renunciation of her 
 favorite and namesake proceeded, it was not from indifference 
 to her fate. 
 
 "Have you ever had any reason for supposing your steward 
 anything but an upright man?" he said to the lady. 
 
 "Never the slightest. Have you?" said she reservedly. 
 
 "Well— I have." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I can say nothing plainly because nothing is proved. But 
 my suspicions are very strong." 
 
 "Do you mean that he was rather cool toward his wife when 
 they were first married, and that it was unfair in him to leave 
 her? I know he was; but I think his recent conduct toward 
 her has amply atoned for the neglect." 
 
 He looked Miss Aldclyfife full in the face. It was plain that 
 she spoke honestly. She had not the slightest notion that the 
 woman who lived with the steward might be other than Mrs. 
 ]\Ianston — much less that a greater matter might be behind. 
 
 "That's not it — I wish it was no more. My suspicion is, 
 first, that the woman living at the Old House is not Mr, Man- 
 ston's wife." 
 
 "Not— Mr. Manston's wife?" 
 
 "That is it." 
 
 Miss Aldclyfife looked blankly at the rector. "Not Mr. 
 Manston's wife — who else can she be?" she said, simply. 
 
 "An improper woman of the name of Anne Seaway." 
 
 ]\Ir. Raunham had, in common with other people, noticed the 
 extraordinary interest of Miss AldclyfTe in the well-being of her 
 steward, and had endeavored to account for it in various ways. 
 The extent to which she was shaken by his information, while it 
 proved that the understanding between herself and Manston 
 did not make her a sharer of his secrets, also showed that the 
 tie which bound her to him was still unbroken. Mr. Raunham 
 had lately begun to doubt the latter fact, and now, on finding 
 himself mistaken, regretted that he had not kept his own 
 counsel in the matter. This it was too late to do, and he pushed 
 on with his proofs. He gave Miss Aldclyfife in detail the 
 grounds of his belief. 
 
 22 
 
338 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Before he had done, she recovered the cloak of reserve that 
 she had adopted on his opening the subject. 
 
 "I niipfht possibly be convinced that you were in the right, 
 after such an elaborate arg-ument," she replied, "were it not 
 for one fact, which bears in the contrary direction so pointedly 
 that nothing but absolute proof can turn it. It is that there is no 
 conceivable motive which could induce any sane man — leaving 
 alone a man of Mr. Manston's clearheadedness and integrity — 
 to venture upon such an extraordinary course of conduct; no 
 motive on earth." 
 
 "That was my own opinion till after the visit of a friend last 
 night — a friend of mine and poor little Cytherea's." 
 
 "Ah — and Cytherea," said Miss AldclyfTe. catching at the 
 idea raised by the name. "That he loved Cytherea — yes, and 
 loves her now, wildly and devotedly, I am as positive as that I 
 breathe. Cytherea is years younger than Mrs. Manston — as I 
 shall call her — twice as sweet in disposition, three times as beau- 
 tiful. Would he have given her up quietly and suddenly for a 
 woman of the town? Mr. Raunham, your story is monstrous, 
 and I don't believe it." She glowed in her earnestness. 
 
 The rector might now have advanced his second proposition 
 — the possible motive — but for reasons of his own he did not. 
 
 "Ver>- well, madam. I only hope that facts will sustain you 
 in your belief. Ask him the question to his face, whether the 
 woman is his wife or no, and see how he receives it." 
 
 "I will to-morrow, most certainly," she said. "I always let 
 these things die of wholesome ventilation, as every fungus 
 does." 
 
 But no sooner had the rector left her presence than the grain 
 of mustard seed he had sown grew to a tree. Her impatience 
 to set her mind at rest could not brook a night's delay. It was 
 with the utmost difficulty that she could wait till evening ar- 
 rived to screen her movements. Immediately the sun had 
 dropped behind the horizon, and before it was quite dark, she 
 wrapped her cloak around her, softly left the house, and walked 
 erect through the gloomy park in the direction of the old manor- 
 house. 
 
 The same minute saw two persons sit down in the rectory- 
 house to share the rector's usuallv solitary dinner. One was 
 a man of conunonplaco. middlc-cJass apjiearance in all except 
 his eyes. The cnhcr was Edward Springrove. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 337 
 
 The discovery of the carefully concealed letters rankled in 
 the mind of Anne Seaway. Her woman's nature insisted that 
 Manston had no right to keep all matters connected with his lost 
 wife a secret from herself. Perplexity had bred vexation: vex- 
 ation, resentment; curiosity had been continuous. The whole 
 morning this resentment and curiosity increased. 
 
 The steward said very little to his companion during their 
 luncheon at midday. He seemed reckless of all appearances — 
 almost indifferent to whatever fate awaited him. All his actions 
 betrayed that something portentious was impending, and still 
 he explained nothing. By carefully observing every trifling 
 action, as only a woman can observe them, the thought at 
 length dawned upon her that he was going to run away secretly. 
 She feared for herself; her knowledge of law and justice was 
 vague, and she fancied she might in some way be made respon- 
 sible for him. 
 
 In the afternoon he went out of the house again, and she 
 watched him turn away in the direction of Froominster. She 
 felt a desire to go to Froominster herself, and, after an interval 
 of half an hour, followed him on foot — ostensibly to do some 
 shopping. 
 
 (Dne among her several trivial errands was to make a small 
 purchase at the druggist's. Opposite the druggist's stood the 
 County Bank. Looking out of the shop window, between the 
 colored bottles, she saw Manston come down the steps of the 
 bank, in the act of withdrawing his hand from his pocket, and 
 pulling his coat close over its mouth. 
 
 It is an almost universal habit with people when leaving a 
 bank, to be carefully adjusting their pockets if they have been 
 receiving money; if they have been paying it, their hands swing 
 laxly. 
 
 The steward had in all likelihood been taking money — pos- 
 sibly on Miss Aldclyffe's account — that was continual with him. 
 And he might have been removing his own, as a man would do 
 who was intending to leave the country. 
 
 § 3. From five to eight o'clock p. m. 
 
 Anne reached her home in time to preside over preparations 
 for dinner. Manston came in half an hour later. The lamp was 
 
338 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 lighted, the shutters were closed, and they sat down top^ethcr. 
 lie was pale and worn — almost haj:jgard. 
 
 The meal passed off in almost unljrokcn silence. When pre- 
 occupati*)n withstands the influence of a social meal with one 
 pleasant companion, the mental scene must be surpassingly 
 vivid. Just as she was rising a tap came to the door. 
 
 Before a maid could attend to the knock. Manston crossed 
 the room and answered it himself. The visitor was Miss Ald- 
 clyffe. 
 
 Manston instantly came back and sjiokc to Anne in an under- 
 tone. "I should be glad if you could retire to your room for a 
 short time." 
 
 "It is a dry. starlight evening," she replied. "I will go for a 
 little walk, if vour object is merelv a private conversation with 
 Miss Aldclyffc." 
 
 "\'ery well, do; there's no acc<nmting for tastes." he said. A 
 few commonplaces then passed between her and Miss .\ldclyffe, 
 and Anne went upstairs to bonnet and cloak herself. She came 
 down, opened the front door, and went out. 
 
 She looked around to realize the night. It was dark, mourn- 
 ful, and quiet. Then she sto kI still. From the moment that 
 Manston had requested her absence, a strong and burning de- 
 sire had prevailed in her to know the subject of Miss .Mdclyffe's 
 conversation with him. .Simple curiosity was not entirely what 
 inspired her. Her suspicions had been thoroughly aroused by 
 the discovery of the morning. A conviction that her future 
 depended on her power to combat a man who, in desperate 
 circumstances, would be far from a friend to her, prompted a 
 strategic movement to accpiire the important secret that was 
 in handling now. The woman thought and thought, and rc- 
 gartled the dull dark trees, anxiously debating how the thing 
 could be done. 
 
 Stealthily reopening the front door she entered the hall, and 
 advancing and pausing alternately, came close to the door of 
 the room in wliich Miss .Mdclyffc and Manston conversed. 
 Nothing could l)c heard through the keyhole or panels. At a 
 great risk she softly turned the kn.-b and opened the door to a 
 width of about half an inch, performing the act so delicately 
 that three minutes, at least, were occupied in completing it. 
 At that instant Miss .'Mdclyffc said: 
 
 "There's a draught somewhere. The door is ajar, I think.'" 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 339 
 
 Anne glided back under the staircase. Manston came for- 
 ward and closed the door. 
 
 This chance was now cut off, and she considered again. 
 
 The parlor or sitting-room, in which the conference took 
 place, had the window-shutters fixed on the outside of the 
 window, as is usual in the back portions of old country houses. 
 The shutters were hinged on one side of the opening, and met 
 in the middle, where they were fastened by a bolt passing con- 
 tinuously through them and the wood mullion within, the bolt 
 being secured on the inside by a pin, which was seldom inserted 
 till Manston and herself were about to retire for the night; 
 sometimes not at all. 
 
 If she returned to the door of the room she might be dis- 
 covered at any moment, but could she listen at the window, 
 which overlooked a part of the garden never visited after 
 nightfall, she would be safe from disturbance. The idea was 
 worth a trial. 
 
 She glided round to the window, took the head of the bolt 
 between her finger and thumb, and softly screwed it round until 
 it was entirely withdrawn from its position. The shutters re- 
 mained as before, while, where the bolt had come out, was now 
 a shining hole three-quarters of an inch in diameter, through 
 which one might sec into the middle of the room. She applied 
 her eye to the orifice. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe and Manston were both standing; Manston 
 with his back to the window, his companion facing it. The 
 lady's demeanor was severe, condemnatory, and haughty. No 
 more was to be seen; Anne then turned sideways, leaned with 
 her shoulders against the shutters, and placed her ear upon the 
 hole. 
 
 "You know where," said Miss Aldclyffe. "And how could 
 you, a man, act a double deceit like this?" 
 
 "Men do strange things sometimes." 
 
 "What was your reason — come?" 
 
 "A mere whim." 
 
 "I might even believe that if the woman were handsomer 
 than Cytherea, or if you had been married some time to Cy- 
 therea, and had grown tired of her." 
 
 "And can't you believe, it, too, under these conditions: that 
 I married Cytherea, gave her up because I heard that my wife 
 was alive, found that my wife would not come to live with me, 
 
340 DESPERATr: REMEDIES. 
 
 and then, not to let any woman I love so well as Cytherea run 
 any risk of being (lisj)laced and ruined in reputation, should 
 my wife ever think fit to return, induced this woman to come to 
 me, as being better than no comi)anion at all?" 
 
 "I caimot believe it. Your love for Cytherea was not of such 
 a kind as that excuse would imply. It was Cytherea or nobody 
 with you. As an object of passion, you did not desire the com- 
 pany of this Anne Seaway at all, and certainly not so much as to 
 madly risk your reputation by bringing her here in the way you 
 have done. I am sure you didn't, Aeneas." 
 
 "So am I," he said bluntly. 
 
 Miss AldclyfFc uttered an exclamation of astonishment: the 
 confession was like a blow in its suddenness. She began to 
 reproach him bitterly, and with tears. 
 
 "How could you overthrow my jjlans, disgrace the only girl 
 I ever had any respect for, by such inexplicable doings? . . 
 That woman nuist lca\c this place — tlie countn*-, perhaps. 
 Heavens! the truth will leak out in a day or two!" 
 
 "She must do no such thing, and the tnith must be stifled, 
 somehow — nobody knows how. If I stay here, or on any spot 
 of the civilized globe, as Aeneas Manston, this woman must 
 live with me as my wife, or I am damned past redemption!" 
 
 "I will not countenance your keeping her, whatever your 
 motive may be." 
 
 "You must do something," he murmured. "You must. Yes, 
 you must." 
 
 "I never will," she said. " Tis a criminal act." 
 
 He looked at her earnestly. "Will you not support me 
 through this deception if my very life depends upon it? Will 
 you not?" 
 
 "Nonsense! Life! It will be a scandal to you. but she must 
 leave this place. It will out sooner or later, and tiie exposure 
 had better come now." 
 
 Manston repeated gloomily the same words. "My life de- 
 pends upon your supporting me — my vcr>- life." 
 
 He then came close to her, and spoke into her car. While he 
 spoke he held her head to his mouth with both his hands. 
 Strange expressions came over her face; the workings of her 
 mouth were painful to observe. Still he held her and whispered 
 on. 
 
 The only words that could be caught by Anne Seaway, con- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 341 
 
 fused as her hearing frequently was by the moan of the wind 
 and the waterfall in her outer ear, were these of Miss Aldclyffe, 
 in tones which absolutely quivered: 
 
 "They have no money — what can they prove?" 
 
 The listener tasked herself to the utmost to catch his answer, 
 but it was in vain. Of the remainder of the colloquy one fact 
 alone was plain to Anne, and that only inductively — that Miss 
 Aldclyffe, from what he had revealed to her, was going to 
 scheme body and soul on Manston's behalf. 
 
 Miss Aldclyffe seemed now to have no further reason for 
 remaining, yet she lingered awhile as if loath to leave him. 
 When, finally, the crestfallen and agitated lady made prepara- 
 tions for departure, Anne quickly inserted the bolt, ran round to 
 the entrance archway, and down the steps into the park. Here 
 she stood close to the trunk of a huge lime-tree, which absorbed 
 her dark outline into its own. 
 
 In a few minutes she saw Manston, with Miss Aldclyffe 
 leaning on his arm, cross the glade before her and proceed in 
 the direction of the house. She watched them ascend the rise 
 and advance, as two black spots, toward the mansion. The 
 appearance of an oblong space of light in the dark mass of walls 
 denoted that the door was opened. Miss Aldclyffe's outline 
 became visible upon it, the door shut her in, and all was dark- 
 ness again. The form of Manston returning alone arose from 
 the gloom, and passed by Anne in her hiding-place. 
 
 Waiting outside a quarter of an hour longer, that no sus- 
 picion of any kind might be excited, Anne returned to the old 
 manor-house. 
 
 § 4. From eight to eleven o'clock p. m. 
 
 Manston was very friendly that evening. It was evident to 
 her, now that she was behind the scenes, that he was making 
 desperate efforts to disguise the real state of his mind. 
 
 Her terror of him did not decrease. They sat down to sup- 
 per, Manston still talking cheerfully. But what is keener than 
 the eye of a mistrustful woman? A man's cunning is to it as 
 was the armor of Sisera to the thin tent-nail. She found, in 
 spite of his adroitness, that he was attempting something more 
 than a disguise of his feeling. He was trying to distract her 
 
: 12 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 .'ittontlon, that he might be uii'ibserveil in some special move- 
 iiK'iU of liis hands. 
 
 What a moment it was for her then ! The whole surface of her 
 ImmIv became attentive. She allowed him no chance whatever. 
 We know the dui)licated condition at such times — when the 
 existence divides itself in two, and the ostensibly innocent 
 chatterer stands in front, like another person, to hide the timor- 
 ous spy. 
 
 Manston played the same game, but more palpably. The 
 meal was nearly over when he seemed possessed of a new idea 
 of how his object might be accomplished. He tilted back his 
 chair with a reflective air, and looked steadily at the clock 
 standing against the wall opposite him. He said didactically: 
 
 "Few faces are capable of expressing more by dumb show 
 than the face of a clock. You may see in it every variety of 
 incentive — from the softest seductions to negligence, to the 
 strong'est hints for action." 
 
 "Well, in what way?" she inquired. His drift was. as yet, 
 quite unintelligible to her. 
 
 "Why, for instance: look at the cold, methodical, unro- 
 mantic, business-like air of all the right-angled positions of the 
 hands. They make a man set about work in spite of himself. 
 Then look at the piquant shyness of its face when the two hands 
 ,;rc over each other. Several attitudes imjily 'make ready.' The 
 make ready' of ten minutes to twelve differs from the 'make 
 ready' of ten minutes to one, as youth differs from age. 'I'p- 
 ward and onward.' says twenty-five minutes to eleven. Mid- 
 day or midnight expresses distinctly. 'It is done.' You surely 
 have noticed that?" 
 
 "Yes, I have." 
 
 lie continued with affected quaintness: 
 
 "The easy dash of ten minutes i>ast seven, the rakish reckless- 
 ness of a quarter past, the drooping weariness of twenty-five 
 minutes past, must have been observed by everybody." 
 
 "Whatever amount of truth there may be. there is a good deal 
 • f imagination in your fancy." she said. 
 
 He still contemplated the clock. 
 
 "Then, again, the general finish of the face has a great effect 
 upon the eye. This old-fashioned brass-faced one we have 
 li'ir. with its arched top, half-moon slit for the day of the 
 i-.i":ith. and ship rocking at the upper part, impresses me with 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 343 
 
 the notion of its being an old cynic, elevating his brows, whose 
 thoughts can be seen wavering between good and evil." 
 
 A thought now enlightened her; the clock w^as behind her, 
 and he wanted to get her back turned. She dreaded turning, 
 yet, not to excite his suspicion that she was on her guard, she 
 quickly looked behind her at the clock as he spoke, recovering 
 her old position again instantly. The time had not been long 
 enough for any action whatever on his part. 
 
 "Ah," he casually remarked, and at the same minute began 
 to pour her out a glass of wine. "Speaking of the clock has 
 reminded me that it must nearly want winding up. Remember 
 that it is wound up to-night. Suppose you do it at once, my 
 dear," 
 
 There was no possible way of evading the act. She reso- 
 lutely turned to perform the operation; anything was better 
 than that he should suspect her. It was an old-fashioned eight- 
 day clock, of workmanship suited to the rest of the antique 
 furniture that Manston had collected there, and ground heavily 
 during winding. 
 
 Anne had given up all idea of being able to watch him during 
 the interval, and the noise of the wheels prevented her learning 
 anything by her ears. But, as she wound, she caught sight of 
 his shadow on the wall at her right hand. 
 
 What was he doing? 
 
 He was in the very act of pouring something into her glass 
 of wine. 
 
 He had completed the maneuver before she had done wind- 
 ing. She methodically closed the clock-case and turned round 
 again. When she faced him he was sitting in his chair as before 
 she had risen. 
 
 In a familiar scene wdiich has hitherto been pleasant, it is 
 difBcult to realize that an added condition, which does not alter 
 its aspect, can have made it terrible. The woman thought that 
 his action must have been prompted by no other intent than 
 that of poisoning her, and yet she could not instantly put on 
 a fear of her position. 
 
 And before she had grasped these consequences, another sup- 
 position served to make her regard the first as unlikely, if not 
 absurd. It was the act of a madman to take her life in a man- 
 ner so easy of discovery, unless there were far more reason for 
 the crime than any that Manston could possibly have. 
 
344 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Was it not merely his intention, in tampering- with her wine, 
 to make her sleep sonndly that night? This was in hannony 
 with her original suspicion, that he intended secretly to abscond. 
 At any rate lie was going to set about some stealthy proceed- 
 ing, as to wiiich she was to be kept in utter darkness. The 
 ditTiculty now was to avoid tlrinking the wine. 
 
 I5y means of one pretext and another she put off taking her 
 glass for nearly five minutes, but he eyed her too frecjuently to 
 allow her to throw the potion under the grate. It became neces- 
 sary to take one sip. This she did, and found an opportunity 
 of absorbing it in her handkerchief. 
 
 Plainly he had n.) idea of her countermoves. The scheme 
 seemed to him in proper train, and he turned to poke out the 
 fire. She instantly seized the glass and poured its contents 
 down her bosom. When he faced round again she was holding 
 the glass to her lips, empty. 
 
 In due course he locked the doors and saw that the shutters 
 were fastened. She attended to a few closing details of house- 
 wifery, and a few minutes later they retired for the night. 
 
 § 5. From elei'cn o^ clock to fttidnij^ht. 
 
 When Mansion was persuaded, by the feigned heaviness of 
 her breathing, that Anne Seaway was asleep, he softly arose, 
 and dressed himself in tlie gloom. 
 
 With ears strained to their utmost she heard him complete 
 this operation; then he took something from his pocket, put 
 it in the drawer of the dressing-table, went to the door, and 
 down the stairs. She glided out of bed and looked in the 
 drawer. He had only restored to its place a small phial she had 
 seen there before. It was labeled "Battley's solution of opium." 
 She felt relieved that her life had not been attempted. That 
 was to have been her sleeping-draught. 
 
 No time was to be lost if she meant to be a match for him. 
 She followed him in her night-dress. When she reached the 
 foot of the staircase he was in the office and had closed the door, 
 under which a faint gleam showed that he had obtained a light. 
 
 She crept to the door, but could not venture to open it, h.)W- 
 cver slightly. Placing her ear to the panel, she could hear him 
 tearing up papers of some sort, and a brighter and quivering- 
 ray of light coming from the threshold an instant later, implied 
 that he was burning them. Hy the slight noise of his footsteps 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 345 
 
 on the uncarpeted floor, she at length imagined that he was 
 approaching the door. She flitted upstairs again and crept into 
 bed. 
 
 Manston returned to the bedroom close upon her heels and 
 entered it — again without a light. Standing motionless for an 
 instant to assure himself that she still slept, he went to the 
 drawer in which their ready money was kept, and removed the 
 casket that contained it. Anne's ear distinctly caught the 
 rustle of notes and the chink of gold as he handled it. Some he 
 placed in his pocket, some he returned to its place. 
 
 He stood thinking, as it were weighing a possibility. While 
 lingering thus he noticed the reflected image of his own face 
 in the glass — pale and specter-like in its indistinctness. The 
 sight seemed to be the feather which turned the balance of in- 
 decision: he drew a heavy breath, retired from the room, and 
 passed downstairs. She heard him unbar the back door and go 
 out into the yard. 
 
 Feeling safe in a conclusion that he did not intend to return 
 to the bedroom again, she arose, and hastily dressed herself. 
 On going to the door of the apartment she found that he had 
 locked it behind him. "A precaution — it can be no more," she 
 muttered. Yet she was all the more perplexed and excited on 
 this account. Had he been going to leave home immediately 
 he would scarcely have taken the trouble to lock her in, holding 
 the belief that she was in a drugged sleep. 
 
 The lock shot into a box-staple, so that there was no possi- 
 bility of her pushing back the bolt. How should she follow him? 
 Easily. 
 
 An inner closet opened from the bedroom : it was large, and 
 had some time heretofore been used as a dressing or bath-room, 
 but had been found inconvenient from having no other outlet 
 to the landing. The window of this little room looked out 
 upon the roof of the porch, which was flat and covered with 
 lead. Anne took a pillow from the bed, gently opened the 
 casement of the inner room, and stepped forth on the flat. 
 There, leaning over the edge of a small parapet that orna- 
 mented the porch, she dropped the pillow upon the gravel path, 
 and let herself down over the parapet by her hands till her toes 
 swung about two feet from the ground. From this position she 
 adroitly alighted upon the pillow, and stood in the path. 
 
 Since she had come indoors from her walk in the early part 
 
3^6 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 of tlie evcninj^ the moon had risen. But the thick clouds over 
 spreailing tlie whole landscape renilercd the dim light per 
 vasive and gray: it ajipeared as an attribute of the air. 
 
 Anne crept round to the back of the house, listening intently. 
 The steward had had at least ten minutes' start of her. She had 
 waited here while one might count fifty, when she heard a move- 
 ment in the outhouse — a fragment once attached to the main 
 building. This outhouse was partitioned into an outer and an 
 inner room, which had been a kitchen and a scullery before the 
 connecting' erections were pulled down, but they were now used 
 respectively as a brewhouse and workshop, the only means of 
 access to the latter being through the brewhouse. The outer 
 door of this first apartment was usually fastened by a padlock 
 on the exterior. It was now closed, but not fastened. Manston 
 was evidently in the outhouse. 
 
 She slightly moved the door. The interior of the brewhouse 
 was wrapped in gloom, but a streak of light fell toward her in 
 a line across the floor from the inner or workshop door, which 
 was not quite closed. The light was unexpected, none having 
 been visible through hole or crevice. Glancing in, the woman 
 found that he had placed cloths and mats at the various aper- 
 tures, and hung a sack at the window to prevent the egress of 
 a single ray. She could also perceive from where she stood 
 that the bar of light fell across the brewing-copper just outside 
 the inner door, and that upon it lay the key of her bedroom. 
 
 The illuminated interior of the workshop was also partly 
 visible from her position, through the two half-open doors. 
 Manston was engaged in emptying a large cupboard of tlu 
 tools, gallipots, and old iron it contained. When it was quitr 
 cleared he took a chisel, and with it began to withdraw tli^ 
 hooks and shoulder-nails holding the cupboard to die wall. 
 All these being loosened, he extended his arms, lifted the cu]i- 
 board bodily from the brackets under it, and deposited it on thr 
 floor besiile him. 
 
 That portion of the wall which had been screened by thr 
 cupboard was now laid bare. This, it appeared, had been plas- 
 tered more recently than the bulk of the outhouse. Manston 
 loosened the plaster with some kind of tool, flinging the pieces 
 into a basket as they fell. Having now stripped clear about two 
 feet area of wall, he inserted a crowbar between the joints of 
 the bricks beneath, softly wriggling it until several were loos- 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 347 
 
 ened. There was now disclosed the mouth of an old oven, 
 which was apparently contrived in the thickness of the wall, 
 and having fallen into disuse, had been closed up with bricks in 
 this manner. It was formed after the simple old-fasliioned plan 
 of oven-building — a mere oblate cavity without a flue. 
 
 Manston now stretched his arm into the oven, dragged forth 
 a heavy weight of great bulk, and let it slide to the ground. 
 The woman who watched him could see the object plainly. It 
 was a common corn-sack, nearly full, and was tied at the mouth 
 in the usual way. 
 
 The steward had once or twice started up, as if he had heard 
 sounds, and his motions nov/ became more cat-like still. On a 
 sudden he put out the light. Anne had made no noise, yet a 
 foreign noise of some kind had certainly been made in the 
 intervening portion of the house. She heard it. "One of the 
 rats," she thought. 
 
 He seemed soon to recover from his alarm, but changed his 
 tactics completely. He did not light his candle — going on with 
 his work in the dark. She had only sounds to go by now, and, 
 judging as well as she could from these, he was piling up the 
 bricks which closed the oven's mouth as they had been before 
 he disturbed them. The query that had not left her brain all the 
 interval of her inspection — how should she get back into her 
 bedroom again — now received a solution. While he was re- 
 placing the cupboard she would glide across the brewhouse, 
 take the key from the top of the copper, run upstairs, unlock the 
 door, and bring back the key again: if he returned to bed, 
 which was unlikely, he would think the lock had failed to catch 
 in the staple. This thought and intention, occupying such length 
 of words, flashed upon her in an instant, and hardly disturbed 
 her strong curiosity to stay and learn the meaning of his action 
 in the workshop. 
 
 Slipping sideways through the first door and closing it be- 
 hind her, she advanced into the darkness toward the second, 
 making every individual footfall with the greatest care, lest the 
 fragments of rubbish on the floor should crackle beneath her 
 tread. She soon stood close by the copper, and not more than 
 a foot from the door of the room occupied by Manston himself, 
 from which position she could distinctly hear him breathe be- 
 tween each exertion, although it was far too dark to discern 
 anything of him. 
 
348 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 To secure the key of licr cliainljer was her first anxiety, and 
 accordingly she cautiously reached out with her hand to where 
 it lay. 
 
 Instead of touching it, her fingers came in contact with the 
 extreme edge of a cloth garment. 
 
 She dropped faint in a cold sweat. 
 
 "It was either the coat-tail or the cloak trimmings of a man 
 or woman who was standing on the brewing-copper where tiie 
 key had lain." 
 
 The startling discovery so terrified her that slie could hardly 
 repress a sound. She withdrew her hand with a motion like 
 the flight of an arrow. Ilcr touch was so light that the wearer 
 of the garment had remained in entire ignorance of it. and the 
 noise of Mansion's scraping might have been quite sufficient to 
 drown the slight rustle of her dress. 
 
 The person was obviously not the steward : he was still busy. 
 It was somebody who, since the light had been extinguished, 
 had taken advantage of the gloom to come from some dark 
 recess in the brewhouse and stand upon the brickwork of the 
 copper. 
 
 The fear which had at first paralyzed her lessened with the 
 birth of a sense that fear now was utter failure: she was in a 
 desperate position and must abide by the consequences. The 
 motionless person on the copper was, equally with Manston, 
 quite unconscious of her proximity, and she ventured to ad- 
 vance her hand again, feeling behind the person, till she found 
 the key. On its return to her side, her finger-tip skimmed the 
 lower verge of a trousers-leg. 
 
 It was a man, then, who stood there. To go to the door just 
 at this time was impolitic, and she shrank back into an inner 
 corner to wait. 
 
 The comparative security from discovery that her new posi- 
 tion insured resuscitated reason a little, and empowered her to 
 form some logical inferences: 
 
 1. The man who stood on the copper had taken advantage of 
 the darkness to get there, as she had to enter. 
 
 2. The man must have been hid in the outhouse before she 
 reached the door. 
 
 3. He must be watching Manston witli much calculation and 
 system, and for pury^oses nl his own. 
 
 She could now tell by the noises that Manston had completed 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 349 
 
 his re-erection of the cupboard. She heard him replacing the 
 articles it had contained — bottle by bottle, tool by tool — after 
 which he came into the brewhouse, went to the window, and 
 pulled down the cloths covering it; but the window being 
 rather small, this unveiling scarcely relieved the darkness of 
 the interior. 
 
 He returned to the workshop, hoisted something to his back 
 by a jerk, and felt about the room for some other article. Hav- 
 ing found it, he emerged from the inner door, crossed the brew- 
 house, and went into the yard. Directly he stepped out she 
 could see his outline by the light of the clouded and weakly 
 moon. The sack was slung at his back, and in his hand he 
 carried a spade. 
 
 Anne now waited in her corner in breathless suspense for the 
 proceedings of the other man. In about half a minute she heard 
 him descend from the copper, and then the square opening 
 of the doorway showed the outline of this other watcher pass- 
 ing through it likewise. The form was that of a broad-shoul- 
 dered man enveloped in a long coat. He vanished after the 
 steward. 
 
 The woman vented a sigh of relief, and moved forward to 
 follow. Simultaneously she discovered that the watcher whose 
 clothing she had touched was in his turn watched and followed 
 also. 
 
 It was by a woman. Anne Seaway shrank backward again. 
 
 The unknown woman came forward from the farther side 
 of the yard, and pondered awhile in hesitation. Tall, dark, 
 and closely wrapped, she stood up from the earth like a cypress. 
 She moved, crossed the yard without producing the slightest 
 disturbance by her footsteps, and then appeared to go through 
 by a somewhat roundabout or more concealed route in the same 
 direction that the others had taken. 
 
 Anne waited yet another minute — then in her turn noise- 
 lessly followed the last woman. 
 
 But so impressed was she with the sensation of people in 
 hiding, that in coming out of the yard she turned her head to see 
 if any person were following her in the same way. Nobody 
 w^as visible, but she discerned, standing behind the angle of the 
 stable, Manston's horse and gig, ready harnessed. 
 
 He did intend to fly after all, then, she thought. He 
 
350 Di:sri:RATC RE.MKDIi:^. 
 
 must have placed the horse in readiness in the interval between 
 his leaving the house and her exit by the window. 
 
 However, there was not time to weigh this branch of the 
 night's events. She turned about again, and continued on the 
 trail of the otiier woman. 
 
 § 6. From tniilnighl to half-past one a. tn. 
 
 Intentness per\-aded everything; night herself seemed to 
 have become a watcher. 
 
 The four persons proceeded across the glade, and into the 
 park plantation, at remote and irregular distances apart, beyond 
 earshot of each other. Here the ground, completely overhung 
 by the foliage, was coated with a thick moss which was as soft 
 as velvet beneath their feet. The first watcher, that is, the man 
 walking more particularly in the track of Manston, now fell 
 back, when Mansion's housekeeper, knowing the ground pretty 
 well, dived circuitously among the trees and got directly behind 
 the steward, who, incumbered with his load, had proceeded 
 but slowly. The other woman seemed now to be about oppo- 
 site to Anne, or a little in advance, but on Mansion's other 
 hand. 
 
 He reached a pit. midway between the waterfall and the 
 engine-house. There he stopped, wiped his face, and listened. 
 
 Into this pit had drifted uncounted generations of witheretl 
 leaves, half filling it. Oak, beech, and chestnut, rotten and 
 brown alike, mingled themselves in one fibrous mass. Mansion 
 descended into the midst of them, placed his sack on the ground, 
 and raking the leaves aside into a large heap, begati digging. 
 Anne softly drew nearer, crept into a bush, and turning her 
 head to sur^'ey the rest, missed the man who had dropped be- 
 hind, and whom we have called the first watcher. Concluding 
 that he, too, had hidden himself, she turned her attentir»n to the 
 second watcher, the other woman, who had meanwhile advanced 
 near to where Anne lay in hiding, and now seated herself 
 behind a tree, still closer to the steward than was Anne Sea- 
 way. 
 
 ilcre and thus Anne remained concealed. The crunch of 
 the steward's spade, as it cut into the soft vegetable mold. w\is 
 plainly perceptible to her ears, when the periodic cessations 
 l)etwcen the creaks of the engine concurred with a lull in tli 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 351 
 
 breeze, which otherwise brought the subdued roar of the cas- 
 cade h'om the farther side of the bank that screened it. A large 
 hole — sonic four or five feet deep — had been excavated by Man- 
 ston in about twenty minutes. Into this he immediately placed 
 the sack, and then began filling in the earth, and treading it 
 down. Lastly, he carefully raked the whole mass of dead and 
 dry leaves into the middle of the pit, burying the ground with 
 them as they had buried it before. 
 
 For a hiding-place the spot was unequaled. The thick ac- 
 cumulation of leaves, which had not been disturbed for cen- 
 turies, might not be disturbed again for centuries to come, 
 while their lower layers still decayed and added to the mold 
 beneath. 
 
 By the tim.e this work was ended the sky had grown clearer, 
 and Anne could now see distinctly the face of the other woman, 
 stretching from behind the tree, seemingly forgetful of her 
 position in her intense contemplation of the actions of the 
 steward. Her countenance was white and motionless. 
 
 It was impossible that IManston should not soon notice her. 
 At the completion of his labor he 'turned and did so. 
 
 "Ho — you here!" he exclaimed. 
 
 ''Don't think I am a spy upon you," she said, in an implor- 
 ing whisper. Anne recognized the voice as Miss AldclyfTe's. 
 
 The trembling lady added hastily another. remark, which w^as 
 drowned in the recurring creak of the engine close at hand. 
 The first watcher, if he had come no nearer than his original 
 position, was too far off to hear any part of this dialogue, on 
 account of the roar of the falling w-ater, which could reach him 
 unimpeded by the bank. 
 
 The remark of Miss Aldclyffe to Manston had plainly been 
 concerning the first watcher, for Manston, with his spade in his 
 hand, instantly rushed to Avhere the man was concealed, and, 
 before the latter could disengage himself from the boughs, 
 the steward struck him on the head with the blade of the 
 instrument. The man fell to the ground. 
 
 "Fly!" said Miss Aldclyffe to ]\Ianston. Manston vanished 
 amid the trees. Miss AldclyfTe went oiT in a contrary direction. 
 
 Anne Seaway whs about to run away likewise, when she 
 turned and looked at the fallen man. He lay on his face 
 motionless. 
 
352 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Many of these women who own to no moral code show 
 considerable maj^nanimity when they see people in trouble. 
 To act rightly simply because it is one's duty is proper: but a 
 good action which is the result of no law of reflection shines 
 more than any. 
 
 She went up to him and gently turned him over, upon which 
 he began to show signs of life. By her assistance he was soon 
 able to stand upright. 
 
 He looketl about him with a bewildered air. endeavoring to 
 collect his ideas. "Who are you?" he said to the woman, 
 mechanically. 
 
 It was bad policy now to attempt disguise. "I am the sup- 
 posed Mrs. Manst':»!i," she said. "Who are you?" 
 
 "I am the detective employed by Mr. Raunham to sift this 
 mystery — which may be criminal." He stretched his limbs, 
 pressed his head, and seemed gradually to awake to a sense of 
 having been incautious in his utterance. "Never you mind 
 who I am," he continued. "Well — it doesn't matter now, either 
 — it will no longer be a secret." 
 
 He stooped for his hat and ran in the direction the steward 
 liad taken — coming back again after the lapse of a niinute. 
 
 "It's only an aggravated assault, after all," he said hastily, 
 "until we have found out for certain what's buried here. It 
 may be only a bag of building rubbish ; but it mav be more. 
 Come and help me dig." He seized the spade with the 
 awkwardness of a town man, and went into the pit, continuing 
 a muttered discourse. "It's no use my running after him 
 single-handed," he said. "He's ever so far off by this time. 
 The best step is to see what is here." 
 
 It was far easier for the detective to reopen the hole than 
 it had been for Manston to form it. The leaves were raked 
 away, the loam thrown out. and the sack dragged forth. 
 
 "Hold this." he said to .Anne, whose curiosity still kept her 
 standing near. He turned on the light of a dark lantern he had 
 brought, and gave it into her hand. 
 
 The string which bound the mouth of the sack was now cut. 
 The detective laid the bag on its side, seized it by the bottom, 
 and jerked forth the contents. A large package was disclosed, 
 carefully wrapped up in imper\'ious taqiaulin. also well tied. 
 
 He was on the point of pulling open the folds at one end, 
 when a light-colored glossy substance, hanging on the outside, 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 353 
 
 arrested his eye. He put his hand upon it; it felt stringy, 
 and adhered to his fingers. "Hold the light close," he said. 
 
 She held it close. He raised his hand to the glass, and they 
 both peered at an almost intangible filament he held between 
 his finger and thumb. It consisted of a few long hairs; the hair 
 of a woman. 
 
 "God! I couldn't believe it — no, I couldn't believe it!" the 
 detective whispered, horror-struck. "And I have lost the man 
 for the present through my unbelief. Let's get into a sheltered 
 place Now wait a minute while I prove it." 
 
 He thrust his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and withdrew 
 thence a minute packet of brown paper. Spreading it out he 
 disclosed, coiled in the middle, another long hair. It was the 
 hair the clerk's wife had found on Manston's pillow nine days 
 before the Carriford fire. 
 
 He took a hair from among those just discovered, and held 
 it with the preserved one to the light; they were both of a pale 
 brown hue. He laid them parallel and stretched out his arms; 
 they were of about the same quality and texture, and of about 
 one length. The detective turned to Anne. 
 
 "It is the body of his first wife," he said quietly. "He 
 murdered her, as Mr. Springrove and the rector suspected — 
 but how and when, God only knows." 
 
 "And I !" exclaimed Anne Seaway, a probable and natural 
 sequence of events and motives explanatory of the whole crime 
 — events and motives shadowed forth by the letter, Manston's 
 possession of it, his renunciation of Cytherea, and installment 
 of herself — flashing upon her mind with the rapidity of light- 
 ning. 
 
 "Ah — I see," said the detective, standing unusually close to 
 her; and a handcufif was on her wrist. "You must come with 
 me, madam. Knowing as much about a secret murder as God 
 knows is a very suspicious thing: it doesn't make you a god- 
 dess — far from it." He directed the bull's-eye into her face. 
 
 "Pooh! — lead on," she said scornfully, and don't lose your 
 principal actor for the sake of torturing a poor subordinate 
 like me." 
 
 He loosened her hand, gave her his arm, and dragged her 
 out of the grove, making her run beside him till they had 
 reached the rectory. A light was burning here, and an auxil- 
 
C54 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 iary of the detective's awaiting him: a horse ready harness 
 to a spring-cart was stancHiig outside. 
 
 "You have come — 1 wi-^h I had known that," the detecti 
 said to his assistant, hurriedly and angrily. "Well, we've bli 
 dered — he's gone — you should have been here, as I said! 
 was sold by that woman, Miss Aldclyffe — she watched m 
 He hastily gave directions in an undertone to this man. 1 
 concluding words were, "Go in to the rector — he's up. Det 
 Miss Aldclyflc. I, in the meantime, am driving to Fn 
 minster with this one, and for help. We shall be sure to hi 
 him when it gets light." 
 
 He assisted Anne into the vehicle, and drove off with \ 
 As they went, the clear, dry road showed before them betwc 
 the grassy quarters at each side, like a white ribbon, and m: 
 their progress easy. They came to Church way Bower. \ 
 the highway was overhung by dense firs for some distan 
 both sides. It was totally dark here. 
 
 A smash: a rude shock. In the very midst of its length 
 the point where the road began to drop down a hill, the det' 
 ive drove against something with a jerk which nearly flij 
 them b-ith to the ground. 
 
 The man recovered himself, placed Anne on the scat, :| 
 reached out his hand. He found that the off-wheel of his ' 
 was locked in that of another conveyance of some kind. 
 
 "Hoy!" said the officer. 
 
 Nobody answered. 
 
 "Hoy. you man asleep there!" he said agnin. 
 
 No reply. 
 
 "Well, that's odd — this comes of the folly of traveling w 
 out gig-lamps because you expect the dawn." He iumpe< 
 the ground and turned on his lantern. 
 
 There was the gig which had obstructed him. standing 
 the iniddle of the road; a jaded horse harnessed to it. but 
 human being in or near the vehicle. 
 
 "Do you know whcsc gig this is?" he said to the womai 
 
 "No," she said sullenly. But she did recognize it as 
 steward's. 
 
 "I'll swear it's Manston's! Come, I can hear it by yourt' 
 However, you needn't say anything which may criminate 
 What forethought the man nuist liave had — how careful! 
 nuist !i.Tve considered po'^sjliU- contingencies! Why. her 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 355 
 
 have got the horse and gig ready before he began shifting the 
 body." 
 
 He hstened for a sound among the trees. None was to be 
 heard but the occasional scamper of a rabbit over the withered 
 leaves. He threw the light of his lantern through a gap in the 
 hedge, but could see nothing beyond an impenetrable thicket. 
 It was clear that Manston was not many yards off, but the 
 question was how to find him. Nothing could be done by the 
 detective just then, incumbered as he was by the horse and 
 Anne. If he had entered the thicket on a search unaided, 
 Manston might have stepped unobserved from behind a bush 
 and murdered him with the greatest ease. Indeed there were 
 such strong reasons for the exploit in Manston's circumstances 
 at that moment that, without showing cowardice, his pursuer 
 felt it hazardous to remain any longer where he stood. 
 
 He hastily tied the head of Manston's horse to the back of 
 his own vehicle, that the steward might be deprived of the use 
 of any means of escape other than his own legs, and drove on 
 thus with his prisoner to Froominster. Arrived there, he 
 lodged her in the police-station, and then took immediate 
 steps for the capture of Manston. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF THREE HOURS. 
 § I. March the tiventy-third. Midday. 
 
 Thirty-six hours had elapsed since Mansion's escape. 
 
 It was market-day at l-Voominstcr. The farmers outside and 
 inside the corn-e.\ohanj:^c looked at their samples of wheat, 
 and poured them critically as usual from one palm to another, 
 but they thought and spoke of Manston. Grocers serving 
 behind their counters, instead of using their constant phrase, 
 "The next thing, please?" substituted, "Have you heard if he's 
 caught?" Dairymen and drovers standing beside the sheep and 
 cattle pens spread their legs firmly, readjusted their hats, thrust 
 their hands into the lowest depths of their pockets, regarded 
 the animals with the utmost keenness of wliich the eye was 
 capable, and said, "Ay. ay, so's: they'll have him avore night." 
 
 Later in the day, Edward Sjiringrovc jiassed along the street 
 hurriedly and anxiously. "Well, have you heard any more?" 
 he said to an acquaintance who accosted him. 
 
 "They tracked him in this way," said the other young man. 
 "A vagrant first told them that Manston had passed a rick 
 at daybreak under which this man was lying. They followed 
 the track he pointed out and ultimately came to a stile. 
 
 "On the other side was a heap of half-hardened mud, scraped 
 from the road. On the surface of the heap, where it had been 
 smo(~)thcd by the shovel, was distinctly imprinted the fonn of 
 a man's hand, the buttons of his waistcoat, and his watch-chain, 
 showing that he had stumbled in Inirrying over the stile, and 
 fallen there. The pattern of the chain proved the man to have 
 been Manston. They followed on till they reached a ford 
 crossed by stepping-stones — on the farther bank were the same 
 footmarks that had shown themselves beside the stile. The 
 whole of this course had been in the direction of Creston. On 
 they went, and the next clue was furnished them by a shepherd. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 357 
 
 He said that wherever a clear space three or four yards wide 
 ran in a Hne through a flock of sheep lying about a ewe-lease, 
 it was a proof that somebody had passed there not more than 
 half an hour earlier. At twelve o'clock that day he had noticed 
 such a feature in his flock. Nothing more could be heard of 
 him, and they got into Creston. The steam-packet to the 
 Channel Islands was to start at eleven last night, and they at 
 once concluded that his hope was to get to France by way of 
 Jersey and St. Malo — his only chance, all the railway stations 
 being watched. 
 
 "Well, they went to the boat: he was not on board then. 
 They went again at half-past ten: he had not come. Two 
 men now placed themselves under the lamp immediately 
 beside the gangway. Another stayed by the office door, and 
 one or two more up East Street — the short cut to the pier. At 
 a quarter to eleven the mail-bags were put on board. While 
 the attention of the idlers was directed to the mails, down East 
 Street came a man as boldly as possible. The gait was Man- 
 ston's, but not the clothes. He passed over to the shaded part 
 of the street: heads were turned. I suppose this warned him, 
 for he never emerged from the shadow. They watched and 
 waited, but the steward did not reappear. The alarm was 
 raised — they searched the town high and low — no Manston. 
 All this morning they have been searching, but there's not a 
 sign of him anywhere. However, he has lost his last chance of 
 getting across the Channel. It is reported that he has since 
 changed clothes with a laborer." 
 
 During the narration, Edward, lost in thought, had let his 
 eyes follow a shabby man in a smock-frock, but wearing light 
 boots — who was stalking down the street under a bundle of 
 straw which overhung and concealed his head. It was a very 
 ordinary circumstance for a man with a bundle of straw on his 
 shoulders and overhanging his head to go down the High 
 Street of Froominster. Edward saw him cross the bridge 
 which divided the town from the country, place his shaggy 
 incumbrance by the side of the road, and leave it there. 
 
 Springrove now parted from his acquaintance, and went also 
 in the direction of the bridge. As far as he could see stretched 
 the tumpike-road, and, while he was looking, he noticed a man 
 to leap from the hedge at a point two hundred or two hundred 
 and fifty yards ahead, cross the road, and go through a wicket 
 
358 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 on the other side. This figure seemed Hke that of the man 
 who had been carryini^ the bundle of straw. He looked at 
 the straw: it still stood alone. 
 
 The subjoined facts sprang as it were into juxtaposition in 
 his brain: 
 
 Manstt)n had been seen wearing the clothes of a laboring- 
 man — a brown smock-frock. 
 
 So had this man, who seemed other than a laborer, on second 
 thoughts: and he had concealed his face by his bundle of straw 
 with the greatest case and naturalness. 
 
 The path the man had taken led to Palcluirch, where Cytherea 
 was living-. 
 
 If Mrs. Manston was murdered, as some said, on the night of 
 the fire, Cytherea was the steward's lawful wife. 
 
 Manston, at bay, and reckless of results, might rush to his 
 wife, and harm her. 
 
 It was a horrible supposition for a man who loved Cytherea 
 to entertain; but Springrovc could not resist its influence. He 
 started off for Palchurch. 
 
 § 2. One to /wo o'l/oik /<. nt. 
 
 On that self-same midday, while Edward was proceeding to 
 Palchurch by the foot-path across the fields, Owen Graye had 
 left the village and was riding along the turnpike-road to 
 Froominster, that he might ascertaii^ the exact truth of the 
 strange rumor which had reached him concerning Manston. 
 Not to disquiet his sister, he had said nothing to her of the 
 matter. 
 
 She sat by the window, reading. From her position she 
 c )uld sec up the lane for a distance of at least a hundred yards. 
 Passers-by were so rare in this retired nook, that the eyes of 
 those who dwelt by the wayside were invariably lifted to every 
 one on the road, great and small, as to a novelty. 
 
 A man in a brown smock-frock turned the comer and cai^: 
 tow'ard the house. It being market-day at Froominster. t!u 
 village was nearly deserted, and more than this, the old farm- 
 house in which Owen and his sister were staying, stood, as has 
 been stated, apart from the body of cottages. The man did not 
 look respectable: Cytherea arose and bolted the door. 
 
 Unfortunately he was near enough to see her cross the T'^tom. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 359 
 
 e advanced to the door, knocked, and receiving no answer, 
 
 ime to the window; he next pressed his face against the glass, 
 
 sering in. 
 
 Cytherea's experience at that moment was probably as trying 
 
 one as ever fell to the lot of a gentle woman to endure. She 
 jcognized in the peering face that of the man she had 
 larried. 
 
 But not a movement was made by her, not a sound escaped 
 er. Her fear was great; but had she known the truth — that 
 le man outside, feeling that he had nothing on earth to lose 
 y any act, was in the last stage of recklessness, terrified nature 
 lust have given way. 
 
 "Cytherea," he said, "let me come in: I am your husband." 
 
 "No," she replied, still not realizing the magnitude of her 
 eril. "If you want to speak to us, wait till my brother comes." 
 
 "Oh, he's not at home? Cytherea, I can't live without you! 
 dl my sin has been because I love you so! Will you fly with 
 le? I have money enough for us both — only come with me." 
 
 "Not now — not now." 
 
 "I am your husband, T tell you, and I must come in." 
 
 "You cannot," she said faintly. His words began to terrify 
 er. 
 
 "I will, I say!" he exclaimed. "Will you let me in, I ask once 
 lore?" 
 
 "No — I will not," said Cytherea. 
 
 "Then I will let myself in !" he answered resolutely. "I will, 
 
 I die for it!" 
 
 The windows were glazed in lattice panes of leadwork, hung 
 1 casements. He broke one of the panes with a stone, thrust 
 lis hand through the hole, unfastened the latch which held 
 he casement close, and began opening the window. 
 
 Instantly the shutters flew together with a slam, and were 
 arred with desperate quickness by Cytherea on the inside. 
 
 "D n you!" he exclaimed. 
 
 He ran round to the back of the house. His impatience was 
 reater now: he thrust his fist through the pantry window at 
 )ne blow, and opened it in the same way as the former one had 
 )een opened, before the terror-stricken girl was aware that he 
 lad gone round. In an instant he stood in the pantry, ad- 
 anced to the front room where she was, flung back the shutters, 
 nd held out his arms to embrace her. 
 
360 DESPKRATE REMEDIES. 
 
 In extremely tr>in{:j nioiiicnts of bodily or mental pain, 
 Cytherca either flushed hot or faded pale, according to the state 
 of her constitution at the mc^ment. Xow she burned like fire 
 from head to foot, and this preserved her consciousness. 
 
 Xever before had the poor child's natural ag^ility served her 
 in such pood stead as now. A heavy oblonp table stood in the 
 middle of the room. Round this table she flew, keeping; it be- 
 tween herself anil Manston. her larp^e eyes wide open with 
 terror, their dilated pupils constantly fi.xed upon Manston's, to 
 read by his expres.^ion whether his next intention was to dart 
 to the right or the left. 
 
 Even he, at that heated moment. couVl not endure the expres- 
 sion of unutterable agony which shone from that extraordinary 
 gaze of hers. It had surely been given her by God as a means 
 of defense. Manst(^n continued his pursuit with a lowered eye. 
 
 The panting and maddened demon — blind to everything but 
 the capture of his wife — went with a rush under the table: she 
 went over it like a bird. He went heavily over it: she flew 
 under it. and was out at the other side. 
 
 "One on her youth and pliant limbs relies, 
 One on his sinews and his giant size." 
 
 But his superior strength was sure to tire her down in the 
 long run. She felt her weakness increasing with the quickness 
 of her breath: she uttered a wild scream, wliich in its heart- 
 rending intensity seemed to echo for miles. 
 
 At the same juncture her hair became unfastened, and rolled 
 down about her shoulders. The least accident at such critical 
 periods is suflicient to confuse the overwrought intelligence. 
 She lost sight of his intended direction for one instant, and he 
 inmiediatcly outmaneuvered her. 
 
 "At last! my Cytherca!" he cried, overturning the table, 
 springing over it. seizing one of the long brown tresses, pull- 
 ing her toward him. and clasping her round. She writhed 
 downward between his arms and breast, and fell fainting on the 
 floor. For the first time his action was leisurely. He lifted 
 her upon the sofa, exclaiming, "Rest there for awhile, my fright- 
 ened little bird!" 
 
 .And then there was an end of his triumph. He felt himself 
 clutched bv the collar and whizzed backward with the force of 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 361 
 
 a battering-ram against the fireplace. Springrove, wild, red, 
 and breathless, had sprung in at the open window, and stood 
 once more between man and wife. 
 
 Manston was on his legs again in an instant. A fiery glance 
 on the one side, a glance of pitiless justice on the other, passed 
 between them. 
 
 It was again the meeting in the vineyard of Naboth the 
 Jezreelite: "Hast thou found me, O mine enemy? And he 
 answered, I have found thee : because thou hast sold thyself to 
 work evil in the sight of the Lord." 
 
 A desperate wrestle now began between the two men. 
 INIanston was the taller, but there was in Edward much hard, 
 tough muscle which the delicate flesh of the steward lacked. 
 They flew together like the jaws of a gin. In a minute they 
 were both on the floor, rolling over and over, locked in each 
 other's grasp as tightly as if they had been one organic being 
 at war with itself — Edward trying to secure Manston's arms 
 with a small thong he had drawn from his pocket, Manston 
 trying to reach his knife. 
 
 Two characteristic noises pervaded the apartment through 
 this momentous space of time. One was the sharp panting of 
 the two combatants, so similar in each as to be indistinguish- 
 able: the other was the stroke of their heels and toes, as they 
 smote the floor at every contortion of body or limbs. 
 
 Cytherea had not lost consciousness for more than thirty 
 seconds. She had then leaped up, without recognizing that 
 Edward was her deliverer, unfastened the door, and rushed out, 
 screaming wildly, "Come! Help! Oh, help!" 
 
 Three men stood not twenty yards off, looking perplexed. 
 They dashed forward at her words. "Have you seen a shabby 
 man with a smock-frock on lately?" they inquired. She pointed 
 to the door, and ran on the same as before. 
 
 Manston, who had just loosened himself from Edward's 
 grasp, seemed at this moment to renounce his intention of 
 pushing the conflict to a desperate end. "I give it all up for 
 life — dear life!" he cried with a hoarse laugh. "A reckless man 
 has a dozen lives — see how I'll baffle you all yet!" 
 
 He rushed out of the house, but no farther. The boast was 
 his last. In one half-minute more he wes helpless in the hands 
 of his pursuers. 
 
362 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 Edwan.! staggorod to his feet, and paused to recover breath. 
 His thouglits had never forsaken Cylherea, and his first act now 
 was to hasten up the lane after her. She liad not gone far. He 
 found her leaning upon the bank by the roadside, where she had 
 flung herself down in sheer exhaustion. He ran up and lifted 
 her in his arms, and thus aided she was enabled to stand up- 
 right — clinging to him. What would Springrove have given 
 to imprint a kiss upon her lips then! 
 
 They walked slowly toward the house. The distressing 
 sensation of whose wife she was, could not entirely quench the 
 resuscitated pleasure he felt at her grateful recognition of him, 
 and her confiding seizure of his arm for support. He conveyed 
 her carefully into the house. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later, while she was sitting in a partially 
 recovered, half-dozing state in an arm-chair, Edward beside 
 her waiting anxiously till Graye should arrive, they saw a 
 spring-cart pass the door. Old and dry mud-splashes from 
 long-forgotten rains disfigured its wheels and sides; the varnisli 
 and paint had been scratched and dinmied; ornament had long 
 been forgotten in a restless contemplation of use. Three men 
 sat on the seat, the middle one l)eing Mansion. His hands 
 were bound in front of him, his eyes were set directly forward, 
 his countenance pallid, hard, and fixed. 
 
 Springrove had told Cytherea of Manston's crime in a few 
 short words. He now said solemnly, "He is to die." 
 
 "And I cannot mourn for him." she replied with a shudder, 
 leaning back and covering her face with her hands. 
 
 In the silence that followed the two short remarks. Spring- 
 rove watched the cart round the corner, and heard the rattle of 
 its wheels gradually dying away as it rolled in the direction of 
 Froominster. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN HOURS. 
 § I. March the iivc?ity- ninth. Noon. 
 
 Exactly seven days after Edward Springrove had seen the 
 man with the bundle of straw walking down the streets of 
 Froominster, old Farmer Springrove was standing on the edge 
 of the same pavement, talking to his friend Farmer Baker. 
 
 There was a pause in their discourse. Mr. Springrove was 
 looking down the street at some object which had attracted his 
 attention. "Ah, 'tis what we shall all come to," he murmured. 
 
 The other looked in the same direction. "True, neighbor 
 Springrove; true." 
 
 Two men, advancing one behind the other in the middle of 
 the road, were what the farm^ers referred to. They were car- 
 penters, and bore on their shoulders an empty coffin, covered 
 by a thin black clodi. 
 
 "I always feel a satisfaction at being breasted by such a sight 
 as that," said Springrove, still regarding the men's sad burden. 
 "I call it a sort of medicine." 
 
 "And it is medicine .... I have not heard of anybody 
 being ill up this way lately? D'scem as if the person died 
 suddenly." 
 
 "May be so. Ah, Baker, we say sudden death, don't we? But 
 there's no difference in their nature between sudden death and 
 death of any other sort. There's no such thing as a random 
 snappen ofif of what was laid down to last longer. We only 
 suddenly light upon an end — thoughtfully formed as any other 
 — which has been existen at that very same point from the 
 beginnen, though unseen by us to be so soon." 
 
 "It is just a discovery to your own mind, and not an altera- 
 tion in the Lord's." 
 
 "That's it. Unexpected Is not as to the thing, but as to our 
 sight." 
 
364 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Xow you'll hardly believe me, ncigiibor, but this little scene 
 in front of us d'niake nic feel less anxious about pushen on \vi" 
 that threshen and winnowen next week, that I was spcakcji 
 about. Why should we not stand still, says I to myself, antl 
 llintj a quiet eye upon the whys and the wherefores, before the 
 end of it all, and we d' go down into the molderen place, and 
 are forgotten?" 
 
 " 'Tis a feelen that will come. But 'twon't bear looken into. 
 There's a backward current in the world, and we must do our 
 utmost to advance in order just to bide where we be. But, 
 Baker, they are turnen in here with the coffin — look!" 
 
 The two carpenters had borne their load into a lane close at 
 hand. The farmers, in common with others, turned and 
 watched them along the lane. 
 
 " 'Tis a man's cofifin, and a tall man's, too," continued 
 Farmer Springrove. "I lis was a fine fraiue. whoever he was." 
 
 "A very plain box for the poor soul — just the rough elni, 
 you sec." The corner of the cloth had blown aside. 
 
 "Yes, for a very poor man. Well, death's all the less insult 
 to him. I have often thought how far the richer class sink 
 into insignificance beside the poor on extreme occasions like 
 this. Perhaps the greatest of all the reconcilers of a thoughtful 
 mind to poverty — and I speak from experience — is the grand 
 (juietness it possesses him with when the uncertainty of his life 
 shows itself more vividly than usual." 
 
 As Springrove finished speaking, the bearers of the coffin 
 went across a graveled square facing the end of the lane, and 
 approached a grim and massive archway. They paused be- 
 neath it, rang a bell, and waited. 
 
 Over the archway was written in Egyptian capitals: 
 
 "COUXTY GAOL." 
 
 The small rectangular wicket, which was constructed in one 
 of the two iron-studded doors, was opened from the inside. 
 'J'lie men severally stepped over the threshold, the coffin 
 dragged its melancholy length through the aperture, and both 
 entered the court, and were covered from sight. 
 
 "Somebody in the gaol, then?" 
 
 "Yes. one of the prisoners." said a boy, scudding by at the 
 moment, and who passed on whistling. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 365 
 
 "Do you know the name of the man who is dead?" inquired 
 Baker of a third bystander. 
 
 "Yes, 'tis all over town — surely you know, Mr. Springrove? 
 Why Manston, Miss Aldclyffe's steward. He was found dead 
 the first thing this morning. He had hung himself behind the 
 door of his cell, in some way, by a handkerchief and some strips 
 of his clothes. The turnkey says his features were scarcely 
 changed, and just caught the early sunlight shining in at the 
 grating upon him. He has left a complete account of the mur- 
 der, and all that led to it. So there's an end of him." 
 
 It was perfectly true : Manston was dead. 
 
 The previous day he had been allowed the use of writing 
 materials, and had occupied himself for nearly seven hours in 
 preparing the following confession: 
 
 "LAST WORDS. 
 
 "Having found man's life to be a wretchedly conceived 
 scheme, I renounce it, and to cause no further trouble, I write 
 down the facts connected with my past proceedings. 
 
 "After thanking God, on first entering my house, on the 
 night of the fire at Carriford, for my release from bondage 
 to a woman I detested, I went, a second time, to the scene of 
 the disaster, and, finding that nothing could be done by remain- 
 ing there, shortly afterward I returned home again in the com- 
 pany of Mr. Raunham. 
 
 "He parted from me at the steps of my porch, and went 
 back toward the rectory. While I still stood at the door, 
 musing on my strange deliverance, I saw a figure advance 
 from beneath the shadow of the park trees. It was the figure 
 of a woman. 
 
 "When she came near, the twilight was sufficient to show 
 me her attire; it was a cloak reaching to the bottom of her 
 dress, and a thick veil covering her face. These features, 
 together with her size and gait, aided also by a flash of per- 
 ception as to the chain of events which had saved her life, told 
 me that she was my wife Eunice. 
 
 "I gnashed my teeth in a frenzy of despair; I had lost 
 Cytherea; I had gained one whose beauty had departed, whose 
 utterance was complaint, whose mind was shallow, and who 
 
 24 
 
366 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 drank brandy every day. The revulsion of feeling was terrible. 
 Providence, whom I had just thanked, seemed a mocking tor- 
 mentor laughing at me. I felt like a madman. 
 
 "She came close —started at seeing me outside — then spoke 
 to me. Her first words were reproof for what I had uninten- 
 tionally done, and sounded as an earnest of what I was to be 
 cursed with as long as we both lived. I answered angrily; 
 this tone of mine changed her complaints to irritation. She 
 taunted me with a secret she had discovered, which concerned 
 Miss Aldclyffe and myself. I was surprised to learn it — more 
 surprised that she knew it, but concealed my feelings. 
 
 " 'How could you serve me so?' she said, her breath smelliiv 
 of brandy even then. 'You love another woman — yes, you •' 
 See how you drive me about! I have been to the static: 
 intending to leave you forever, and yet I come to try you onr 
 more.' 
 
 "An indescribable exasperation had spamg up in me as si 
 talked — rage and regret were all in all. Scarcely knowiii^ 
 what I did, I furiously raised my hand and swung it rouivi 
 with my whole force to strike her. She turned quickly — anl 
 it was the poor creature's end. By her movement my haiiil 
 came edgewise exactly in the nape of her neck — as men strike 
 a hare to kill it. The effect staggered me with amazement 
 The blow must have disturbed the vertebrae; she fell at n 
 feet, made a few movements, and uttered one low sound. 
 
 "I ran indoors for water and some wine; I came out an 1 
 lanced her arm with my penknife. But she lay still, and I fouivl 
 that she was dead. 
 
 "Here I emphatically and solemnly state that her deatli li 
 my hand was utterly unintentional and unexpected. In ii 
 rage I was impelled to strike her; the only thing I anticipate 
 if anything, was that she would be made to cease her arrogant 
 thereby. 
 
 "It was a long time before I could realize my horribl 
 position. 
 
 "For several minutes T had no idea of attempting to escape 
 the consequences of my deed. Then a light broke upon me. 
 Had anybody seen her since she left the Three Tranters? Had. 
 they not. she was already believed by the parishioners to be du<;t 
 and ashes. I should never be found out. 1 
 
 "Upon this I acted. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 367 
 
 "The first question was how to dispose of the body. The 
 impulse of the moment was to bury her at once in the pit 
 between the engine-house and waterfall; but it struck me that 
 I should not have time. It was now four o'clock, and the 
 workingmen would soon be stirring about the place. I would 
 put off burying her till the next night. I carried her indoors. 
 
 "In turning the outhouse into a workshop, earlier in the 
 season, I found when driving a nail into the wall for fixing a 
 cupboard, that the wall sounded hollow. I examined it and 
 discovered behind the plaster an old oven which had long been 
 disused, and was bricked up when the house was prepared for 
 me. 
 
 "To unfix this cupboard and pull out the bricks was the 
 work of a few minutes. Then bearing in mind that I should 
 have to remove the body again the next night, I placed it in a 
 sack, pushed it into the oven, packed in the bricks, and replaced 
 the cupboard. 
 
 "I then went to bed. ' 
 
 "In bed, I thought whether there were any very remote 
 possibilities that might lead to the supposition that my wife 
 was not consumed by the flames of the burning house. The 
 thing which struck me most forcibly was this, that the searchers 
 might think it odd that no remains whatever should be found. 
 
 The clinching and triumphant deed would be to take the 
 body and place it among the ruins of the destroyed house. But 
 I could not do this, on account of the men who were watching 
 against an outbreak of the fire. One remedy remained. 
 
 "I arose again, dressed myself, and went down to the out- 
 house. I must take down the cupboard again. I did take it 
 down. I pulled out the bricks, pulled out the sack, pulled out 
 the corpse, and took her keys from her pocket and the watch 
 from her side. 
 . "I then replaced everything as before. 
 
 "With these articles in my pocket I went out of the yard, and 
 took my way through the withy copse to the churchyard, enter- 
 ing it from the back. Here I felt my way carefully along till I 
 came to the nook where pieces of bones from newly dug graves 
 are sometimes piled behind the laurel-bushes. I had been ear- 
 nestly hoping to find a skull among these old bones; but 
 though I had frequently seen one or two in the rubbish here, 
 there was not one now I then gro]:>cd in the other corner with 
 the same result — nowhere could I find a skull. Three or four 
 
 24 
 
:58 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 fragments of leg and back bones were all I could collect, and 
 with these I was forced to be content. 
 
 "Taking them in niv hand, I crossed the road, and got round 
 behind the inn, where the couch-heaji was still smoldering. 
 Keeping behind the hedge. I could sec the heads of the three or 
 four men who watclu-d tlie spot. 
 
 "Standing in this |)lace. I took the bones and threw them one 
 by one over the hedge and over the men's heads into the smok- 
 ing embers. When the bones had all been thrown, I threw the 
 keys; last of all I threw the watch. 
 
 "I then returned home as I had gone, and went to bed once 
 more, just as the dawn began to break. I exulted — 'Cythcrea 
 is mine again!' 
 
 "At breakfast-time I thought, 'Suppose the cupboard should 
 by some unlikely chance get moved to-day!' 
 
 "I went to the mason's yard hard by. while the men were at 
 breakfast, and brought away a shovelful of mortar. I took it 
 into the outhouse, again shifted the cuplioard. and plastereil 
 over the mouth of the oven behind. Simply pushing the cup- 
 board back into its place, I waited for the next night that I 
 might Iniry the body, though on the whole it was in a tolerably 
 safe hiding-place. 
 
 "When the night came, my ner\-es were in some way 
 weaker than they had been on the previous night. I felt 
 reluctant to touch the body. I went to the outliouse. but 
 instead of opening the oven, I firmly drove in the shoulder-nails 
 that held the cupboard to the wall. 'I will bur\' her to-morrow 
 night, however,' I thought. 
 
 "Rut the next night I was still more reluctant to touch her. 
 And my reluctance increased, and there the body remained. 
 The oven was, after all, never likely to be opened in my time. 
 
 "I married Cythcrea Graye, and never did a bridegroom 
 leave the church with a heart more full of love and happiness, 
 and a brain more fixed on good intentions, than I did on that 
 morning. 
 
 "When Cytherea's brother made his appearance at the hotel 
 in Southampton, bearing his strange evidence of the porter's 
 disclosure. I was staggered beyond expression. I thought they 
 had found the body. 'Am I to be apprehended and to lose her 
 even now?' I mourned. T saw my error, and instantly saw, 
 too, that I must act externally like an honorable man. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 369 
 
 "So at his request I yielded her up to him, and meditated on 
 several schemes for enabling me to claim the woman I had a 
 legal right to claim as my wife, without disclosing the reason 
 why I knew myself to have it. 
 
 "I went home to Knapwater the next day, and for nearly a 
 week lived in a state of indecision. I could not hit upon a 
 scheme for proving my wife dead without compromising my- 
 self. 
 
 "Mr. Raunham hinted that I should take steps to discover 
 her whereabouts by advertising. I had no energy for the farce. 
 
 "But one evening I chanced to enter the Traveler's Rest Inn. 
 
 "Two notorious poachers were sitting in the settle, which 
 screened my entrance. They were half-drunk — their conversa- 
 tion was carried on in the solemn and emphatic tone common 
 to that stage of intoxication, and I myself was the subject of it. 
 
 "The following was the substance of their disjointed remarks: 
 
 "On the night of the great fire at Carriford, one of them 
 was sent to meet me, and break the news of the death of my 
 wife to me. This he did; but because I would not pay him 
 for his news, he left me in a mood of vindictiveness. When 
 the fire was over, he joined his comrade. The favorable hour 
 of the night suggested to them the possibility of some unlawful 
 gain before daylight came. My fowl-house stood in a tempt- 
 ing position, and still resenting his repulse during the evening, 
 one of them proposed to operate upon my birds. I was 
 believed to have gone to the rectory with Mr. Raunham. The 
 other was disinclined to go, and the first went of¥ alone. 
 
 "It was now about three o'clock. He had advanced as far 
 as the shrubber)', which grows near the north wall of the house, 
 v^-hen he fancied he heard, above the rush of the waterfall, 
 noises on the other side of the building. He described them in 
 these words: 'Ghostly mouths talking — then a fall — then a 
 groan — then the rush of the water and creak of the engine as 
 before.' Only one explanation occurred to him: the house was 
 haunted. And, whether those of the living or dead, voices of 
 any kind were inimical to one who had come on such an errand. 
 He stealthily crept home. 
 
 "His unlawful purpose in being behind the house led him to 
 conceal his adventure. No suspicion of the truth entered his 
 mind till the railway porter had startled everybody by his 
 strange announcement. Then he asked himself, had the her- 
 
370 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 rifying' sounds of that night been really an enactment in the 
 flesh between me and my wife? 
 
 "The words of the other man were: 
 
 " 'Why don't he try to find her if she's alive?' 
 
 " 'True,' said the first. 'Well, I don't forget what I heard, 
 and if she don't turn up alive my mind will be as sure as a Bible 
 upon her murder, and the parson shall know it. though I do get 
 six months on the treadmill for being where I was.' 
 
 " 'And if she should turn up alive?' 
 
 " 'Then I shall know that I am wrong, and believing myself 
 a fool as well as a rogue, hold my tongue.' 
 
 "I glided out of the house in a cold sweat. The only pressure 
 in heaven or earth which could have forced me to renounce 
 Cytherea was now put upon me — the dread of a death upon the 
 gallows. 
 
 "I sat all that night weaving strategy of various kinds. The 
 only effectual remedy ior my hazardous standing that I could 
 see was a simple one. It was to substitute another woman for 
 my wife before the suspicions of the one easily hoodwinked 
 man extended farther. 
 
 "The only difficulty was to find a practical substitute. 
 
 "The one woman at all available for the purpose was a friend- 
 less, innocent creature, named Anne Seaway, whom I had 
 known in my youth, and who had for some time been the house- 
 keeper of a lady in London. On account of this lady's sudden 
 death, Anne stood in rather a precarious position as regarded 
 her future subsistence. She was not the best kind of woman 
 for the scheme; but there was no alternative. One quality of 
 hers was valuable: she was not a talker. I went to London the 
 very next day, called at the Hoxton lodging of my wife (the only 
 place at which she had been known as Mrs. Manston), and 
 found that no great difficulty stood in the way of a personation. 
 And thus favoring circumstances determined my course. I 
 visited Anne Seaway, made love to her. and propounded my 
 plan. 
 
 "We lived cjuietly enough until the Sunday before my appre- 
 hension. Anne came home from church that morning, and told 
 me of the suspicious way in which a young man had ktoked at 
 her there. Nothing could be done beyond waiting the issue <»f 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 371 
 
 events. Then the letter came from Raunham. For the first 
 time in my hfe I was Ijalf-indifferent as to what fate awaited me. 
 During the succeeding day I thought once or twice of running 
 away, but could not quite make up my mind. At any rate it 
 would be best to bury the body of my wife, I thought, for the 
 oven might be opened at any time. I went to Froominster and 
 made some arrangements. In the evening Miss Aldclyfife (who 
 is united to me by a common secret which I have no right or 
 wish to disclose) came to my house, and alarmed me still more. 
 She said that she could tell by Air. Raunham's manner that 
 evening that he kept back from her a suspicion of more impor- 
 tance even than the one he spoke of, and that strangers were in 
 his house even then. 
 
 "I guessed what this further suspicion was, and resolved to 
 enlighten her to a certain extent, and so secure her assistance. 
 I said that I killed my wife by an accident on the night of the 
 fire, dwelling upon the advantage to her of the death of the only 
 W'Oman who knew her secret. 
 
 "Her terror, and fears for my fate, led her to watch the rectory 
 that evening. She saw the detective leave it, and followed him 
 to my residence. This she told me hurriedly when I perceived 
 her after digging my wife's grave in the plantation. She did 
 not suspect what the sack contained. 
 
 "I am now about to pass into my normal condition. For 
 people are almost always in their graves. When we survey the 
 long race of men, it is strange and still more strange to find that 
 they are mainly dead men, who have scarcely ever been other- 
 wise. Aeneas Manston." 
 
 The steward's confession, aided by circumstantial evidence 
 of various kinds, was the means of freeing both Anne Seaway 
 and Miss Aldclyfife from all suspicion of complicity in the man- 
 slaughter. 
 
 § 2. Six o'clock p. m. 
 
 It was evening — just at sunset — on the day of Manston's 
 death. 
 
 In the little cottage at Palchurch was gathered a group con- 
 sisting of Cytherea, her brother, Edward Springrove, and his 
 father. They sat by the window conversing of the strange 
 
372 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 events wliicli had just taken place. In Cytherea's eye there 
 beamed a hopeful ray, though lier face was as white as a lily. 
 
 While they talked, hjokii.g out of the yellow evening light 
 that coated the hedges, trees, and church tower, a brougham 
 rolled round the corner of the lane and came in full view. It 
 reflected the rays of the sun in a flash from its polished panels 
 as it turned the angle, the spokes of the wheels bristling in the 
 same light like bayonets. The vehicle came nearer, and arrived 
 opposite Owen's (loor, when the driver pulled the rein and gave 
 a shout, and the panting and sweating horses stopped. 
 
 "Miss Aldclyffe's carriage!" they all exclaimed. 
 
 Owen went out. "Is ^liss Graye at home?" said the man. 
 "A note for her, and I am to wait for an answer," 
 
 Cytherea read in the handwriting of the rector of Carriford: 
 
 "Dear Miss Grave: 
 
 "Miss AldclyfTe is ill, though not dangerously. She contin- 
 ually repeats your name, and now wishes very much to see you. 
 If you possibly can, come in the carriage. 
 
 "\''ery sincerely yours, 
 
 "John Raunham," 
 
 "How comes she ill?" Owen inquired of the coachman. 
 
 "She caught a violent cold by standing out of doors in the 
 damp on the night the steward ran away. Ever since, till this 
 morning, she complained of fullness and heat in the chest. 
 This morning the maid ran in and told her suddenly that Man- 
 ston had killed himself in jail. She shrieked — broke a blood- 
 vessel — and fell upon the floor. Severe internal hemorrhage 
 continued for some time and then stopped. They say she is 
 sure to get over it: but she herself says no. She has suffered 
 from it l)efore." 
 
 Cytherea was ready in a few moments, and entered the 
 carriage. 
 
 § 3. Snrn o'clock p. m. 
 
 Soft as was Cytherea's motion alf>ng the corridors of Knap- 
 water House, the pretcrnaturally keen intelligence of the suf- 
 fering woman caught the maiden's well-known footfall. She 
 entered the chamber with suspended breath. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 373 
 
 In the room everything- was so still, and sensation was as it 
 were so rarefied by solicitude, that thinking seemed acting, and 
 the lady's weak act of trying to live a silent wrestling with all 
 the powers of the universe. Nobody was present but ]\Ir. Raun- 
 ham, the nurse having left the room on Cythcrea's entry, and 
 the physician and surgeon being engaged in a whispered con- 
 versation in a side chamber. Their patient had been pro- 
 nounced out of danger. 
 
 Cytherea w^ent to the bedside, and was instantly recognized. 
 Oh, what a change — Miss Aldclyffc dependent upon pillows! 
 And yet not a forbidding change. With weakness had come 
 softness of aspect; the haughtiness was extracted from the frail, 
 thin countenance, and a sweeter mild placidity had taken its 
 place. 
 
 Miss Aldclyf^e signified to Mr. Raunham that she would like 
 to be alone with Cytherea. 
 
 "Cytherea," she faintly whispered, the instant the door was 
 closed. 
 
 Cytherea clasped the lady's weak hand, and sank beside her. 
 
 Miss AldclylYe whispered again, "They say I am certain to 
 live ; but I know that I am certainly going to die." 
 
 "They know, I think, and hope." 
 
 "I know best, but we'll leave that. Cytherea — oh, Cytherea, 
 can you forgive me!" 
 
 Her companion pressed her hand. 
 
 "But you don't know yet — you don't know yet," the invalid 
 murmured. "It is forgiveness for that misrepresentation to 
 Edward Springrove that I implore, and for putting such force 
 upon him — that which caused all the train of your innumerable 
 ills!" 
 
 "I know all — all. And I do forgive you. Not in a hasty 
 impulse that is revoked when coolness comes, but deliberately 
 and sincerely: as I myself hope to be forgiven, I accord you my 
 forgiveness now." 
 
 Tears streamed from Miss AldclyfTe's eyes, and mingled with 
 those of her young companion, who could not restrain hers 
 for sympathy. Expressions of strong attachment, interrupted 
 by emotion, burst again and again from the broken-spirited 
 woman. 
 
 "But you don't know my motive. Oh, if you only knew it, 
 how you would pity me then !" 
 
::4 DKSPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 C> thcrca did not break the pause which ensued, and the t-M ?r 
 \\ Oman appeared now to nerve herself by a superhuman cfTo:-t. 
 She si)oke on in a voice weak as a summer breeze, and full of 
 intermission, and yet there pervaded it a steadiness of intention 
 that seemed to demand firm tones to bear it out worthily. 
 
 "Cytherca," she said, "listen to me bef(^re I die. 
 
 "A long time ago — more than thirty years ago — a young girl 
 ■ 'f seventeen was decoyed into a secret marriage with a man 
 she desperately loved, and whom she used to meet by stealth. 
 He professed to be an officer in the line. Two days after the 
 marriage the dreadful fact transpired that he was an escaped 
 convict who had been undergoing sentence for forging a will. 
 He fled to Canada, and was shot in resisting his recapture. 
 
 "She had never assumed her married name, and, upon con- 
 fessing to her parents, it was resolved that she should not 
 assume it now. The whole wild transaction was to be kept silent 
 as the grave, because of the tremendous disgrace such a union 
 would bring upon her family if the world got to know of it. 
 
 '"One night when that miserable child-widow had just arrived 
 home from Germany with her parents, she took all the money 
 she possessed, pinned it on an infant's bosom, together with a 
 letter, stating among other tilings what she wished the child's 
 Christian name to be; wrapped up the little thing, and walked 
 with it to Clapham. Here in a retired street slie selected a 
 house. She placed the child on the doorstep and knocked at 
 the door, then ran away and watched. They took it up and 
 carried it indoors. 
 
 "Now that the poor baby was gone, the girl blamed herself 
 bitterly for cruelty toward it. and wished she had adopted her 
 parents' counsel to secretly hire a nurse. She longed to see it. 
 She didn't know what to do. She wrote in an assumed name to 
 the woman who had taken it in. and asked her to meet the 
 writer with the infant at certain places she named. These were 
 hotels or cofTec-hnuses in Chelsea. Pimlico, or Hammersmith. 
 The woman, being well paid, always came, and asked no ques- 
 tions. At one meeting — at an inn in Hammersmith — she nnde 
 her appearance without the child, and told the girl it was so ill 
 tliat it could not live through the night. The news, and fatigue, 
 brotight on a fainting fit. . . . ■ ." 
 
 Miss .^IdclyfFe's sobs choked her utterance, and she became 
 painfully agitated. Cytherea, pale and amazed at what she 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 375 
 
 heard, wept for her, bent over her, and begged her not to go on. 
 speaking. 
 
 "Yes — I must," she cried between her sobs. "I will — I must 
 go on! And I must tell yet more plainly! . . . you must 
 hear it before I am gone, Cytherea.'' The sympathizing and 
 astonished girl sat down again. 
 
 The name of the woman who had taken the child was Man- 
 ston. She was the widow of a schoolmaster. She said she 
 had adopted the child of a relation. 
 
 "Only one man ever found out who the mother was. He was 
 the keeper of the inn in which she fainted, and his silence she 
 has purchased ever since. 
 
 "A twelvemonth passed — fifteen months — and the saddened 
 girl met a man at her father's house. Ah, such a man! Inex- 
 perience now perceived what it was to be loved in spirit and in 
 trudi ! But it was too late. Had he known her secret he would 
 have cast her out. She withdrew from him by an effort, and 
 pined. 
 
 "Years and years afterward, when she became mistress of a 
 fortune and estates by her father's death, she formed the weak 
 scheme of having near the son whom, in her father's lifetime, 
 she had been forbidden to recognize. Cytherea, you know who 
 that weak woman is! 
 
 "By such toilsome labor as this I got him here as my steward. 
 And I wanted to see him your husband, Cytherea! It was a 
 sweet dream to me. . . . Pity me — oh, pity me! To die 
 unloved is more than I can bear! I loved your father, and I love 
 him now." 
 
 That was the burden of Cytherea "Aldclyffe — for so we will 
 continue to call her, her husband's name having nothing to do 
 with this histor}\ 
 
 'T suppose you must leave me again — you always leave me," 
 she said, after holding the young woman's hand a long w'hile in 
 silence. 
 
 "No — indeed I'll stay always. Do you like me to stay?" 
 
 Miss Aldclyfifc in the jaws of death was Miss Aldclyfife still, 
 though the old fire had degenerated to mere phosphorescence 
 now. "But vou are your brother's housekeeper?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
376 DESPERATK REMEDIES. 
 
 "Well, of course you cannot stay with nic on a sudden like 
 this. . . , Go home, or he will be at a loss for thinpfs. And 
 to-morrow morning- come ap^ain, won't you, dearest, come 
 again — we'll fetch you. But you mustn't stay now, and put 
 Owen out. Oh, no — it would be absurd." The absorliinp;- con- 
 cern about trifles of daily routine, which is so often seen in ver)' 
 sick people, was present here. 
 
 Cytherea promised to go home, and come the next morning 
 to stay continuously. 
 
 "Stay till I die then, will you not? Yes, till I die — I sha'n't 
 die till to-morrow." 
 
 "We hope for your recovery — all of us." 
 
 "I know best. Come at six o'clock, darling." 
 
 "As soon as ever I can," returned Cytherea tenderly. 
 
 "But six is too early — you will have to think of your 
 brother's breakfast. Leave Palchurch at eight, will you?" 
 
 Cytherea consented to this. Miss Aldclyffe would never have 
 known had her conijianion stayed in the house all night, but 
 the honesty of Cytherea's nature rebelled against even the 
 friendly deceit which such a proceeding would have involved. 
 
 An arrangement was come to whereby she was to be taken 
 home in the pony-carriage instead of the brougham that fetched 
 her — the carriage to put up at Palchurch farm for the night, 
 and on that account be in readiness to bring her back earlier. 
 
 § 4. March ihc thirteenth. Daybreak. 
 
 The third and last instance of Cytherea's subjection to those 
 periodic terrors of the night which had emphasized her connec- 
 tion with the AldclyfTe name and blood transpired at the present 
 date. 
 
 It was about four o'clock in the mi'>rning when Cytherea. 
 though most probably dreaming, seemed to awake — and in- 
 stantly was transfixed by a sort of spell, that had in it more of 
 awe than of aflright. At the foot of her bed. looking her in 
 the face with an expression of entreaty beyond the power of 
 words to portray, was the form of Miss Aldclyffe — wan and 
 distinct. No motion was perceptible in her; but longing — 
 earnest longing — was written in every feature. 
 
 Cytherea believed she exercised her waking judgment as 
 usual in thinking, without a shadow of doubt, that Miss Ald- 
 clyffe stood before her in flesh and blood. Reason was not 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 377 
 
 sufficiently alert to lead Cytherea to ask herself how such a 
 thing could have occurred. 
 
 "I would have remained with you — why would you not allow 
 me to!" Cytherea exclaimed. The spell was broken: she be- 
 came broadly awake; and the figure vanished. 
 
 It was in the gray time of dawn. She trembled in a sweat of 
 disquiet, and not being able to endure the thought of her 
 brother being asleep, she went and tapped at his door. 
 
 "Owen!" 
 
 He was not a heavy sleeper, and it was verging upon his time 
 to rise. 
 
 "What do you want, Cytherea?" 
 
 "I ought not to have left Knapwater last night. I wish I 
 had not. I really think I will start at once. She wants me, I 
 know." 
 
 "What time is it?" 
 
 "A few minutes past four." 
 
 "You had better not. Keep to the time agreed upon. Con- 
 sider, we should have such a trouble in rousing the driver, and 
 other things." 
 
 Upon the whole it seemed wiser not to act on a mere fancy. 
 She went to bed again. 
 
 An hour later, when Owen was thinking of getting up, a 
 knocking came to the front door. The next minute something 
 touched the glass of Owen's window. He waited — the noise 
 was repeated. A little gravel had been thrown against it to 
 arouse him. 
 
 He crossed the room, pulled up the blind, and looked out. 
 A solemn white face was gazing upward from the road, expect- 
 antly straining to catch the first glimpse of a person within the 
 panes. It was the face of a Knapwater man, sitting on horse- 
 back. 
 
 Owen saw his errand. There is an unmistakable look in the 
 face of every man who brings tidings of death. Graye opened 
 the window. 
 
 "Miss Aldclyffe . . . .," said the messenger, and paused. 
 
 "Ah; and is she dead?" 
 
 "Yes — she is dead." 
 
 "When did she die?" 
 
 "At ten minutes past four, after another effusion. She knew 
 best, you see, sir. I started directly, by the rector's orders." 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 I'iftccn months have passed, and \vc arc brought on to mid- 
 suninicr ni^ht, one thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven. 
 
 The picture presented is the interior of the old belfrj' of 
 Carriford church, at ten o'clock in the evening. 
 
 I-'ight Carriford men and one stranger are gathered there, 
 heneatii the light of a flaring candle stuck on a piece of wood 
 against the wall. The eight Carriford men are the well-known 
 ringers of the eight fine-toned old bells in the key of F, which 
 have been music to the ears of Carriford parish and the outlying 
 districts for the last four hundred years. The stranger is an 
 assistant, who has appeared from nobody knows where. 
 
 The eight natives — in their shirt-sleeves, and without hats — 
 pull and "catch frantically at the dancing bell-ropes, the locks 
 of their hair waving in the breeze created by their quick 
 motions: the stranger, who has the treble bell, does likewise, 
 but in his right mind and coat. Their ever-changing shadows 
 mingle on the wall in an endless variety of kaleidoscopic forms, 
 and the eyes of all the nine are religiously fixed on a diagram 
 like a large addition sum, which is chalked on the floor. 
 
 Vividly contrasting with the yellow light of the candle upon 
 the four unplastered walls of the tower, and upon the faces and 
 clothes of the men, is the scene discernible through the screen 
 beneath the tower archway. At the extremity of the long 
 mysterious avenue of the nave and chancel can be seen shafts 
 of inoonlight streaming in at the cast window of the church — 
 blue, phosphoric, and ghostly. 
 
 A thorough renovation of the bell-ringing machinery and 
 accessories had taken place in anticipation of an interesting 
 event. New ropes had been provided; every bell had been 
 carefully shifted from its carriage, and the pivots lubricatcfl. 
 P.rirht red "sallies" of woolen texture — soft to the hands, and 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 379 
 
 easily caught — glowed on the ropes in place of the old ragged 
 knots, all of which newness in small details only rendered more 
 evident the irrepressible aspect of age in the mass surrounding 
 them. 
 
 The triple-bob major was ended, and the ringers wiped their 
 faces and rolled down their shirt-sleeves, previously to tucking 
 away the ropes and leaving the place for the night. 
 
 "Piph — h — h — h! A good twenty minutes," said a man with 
 a streaming face, and blowing out his breath — one of the pair 
 who had taken the tenor bell. 
 
 "Our friend here pulled proper well — that 'a did — seen he's 
 but a stranger," said Clerk Crickett, who had just resigned the 
 second rope, and addressing the man in the black coat. 
 
 " 'A did," said the rest. 
 
 "I enjoyed it much," said the man modestly. 
 
 "What we should ha' done 'ithout ye, words can't tell. The 
 man that d' belong by rights to that there bell is ill o' two 
 gallons o' wold cider." 
 
 "And now so's," remarked the fifth ringer, as pertaining to 
 the last allusion, "we'll finish this drop o' metheglin and cider, 
 and every man home along straight as a line." 
 
 "Wi' all my heart," Clerk Crickett replied. "And the Lord 
 send if I ha'n't done my duty by Master Teddy Springrove — 
 that I have so." 
 
 "And the rest o' us," they said, as the cup was handed round. 
 
 "Ay, ay — in ringen — but I was spaken in a spiritual sense o' 
 this mornen's business o' mine up by the chancel rails there. 
 'Twas very convenient to lug her here and marry her instead 
 o' doen it at that twopenny-halfpenny town o' Cres'n. Very 
 convenient." 
 
 "Yery. There was a little fee for blaster Crickett." 
 
 "Ah — well. Money's money — vei-y much so — very — I al- 
 ways have said it. But 'twas a pretty sight for the nation. 'A 
 colored up like any maid, that 'a did." 
 
 "Well enough 'a mid color up. 'Tis no small matter for a 
 man to play wi' fire." 
 
 "Whatever it may be to a woman," said the clerk absently. 
 
 "Thou'rt thinken o' thy wife, clerk," said Gad Weedy. She'll 
 play wi' it again when thou'st get mildewed." 
 
 "Well — let her, God bless her; for I'm but a poor third man, 
 I. The Lord have mercy upon the fourth. . . , Ay, Ted- 
 
3S0 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 (ly's got his own at last. What httle white ears that maid hev 
 t() be sure! choose your wife as you'd choose your pig- — a small 
 ear and a small tale — that was always my joke when I was a 
 merry feller, ah — years agone now ! But Teddy's got her. Poor 
 chap, he was gcttcn as tliin as a hermit wi' g^ief — so was she." 
 
 "May be she'll pick up again now." 
 
 "True — 'tis nater's law, which no man shall gainsay. Ah, 
 well do I bear in mind what I said to Pa'son Raunham, about 
 thy mother's family o' seven, Gad, the very first week of his 
 comen here, when I was just in my prime. 'And how many 
 daughters has that poor Weedy got, clerk?" he says. 'Six, 
 sir,' says I, 'and every one of 'em has a brother.' 'Poor woman,' 
 says he, 'a dozen children! — give her this half-sovereign from 
 me, clerk.' 'A laughed a good five minutes afterward, when he 
 found out my merry nater — 'a did. But there, 'tis over wi' me 
 now. Enteren the church is the ruin of a man's wit, for wit's 
 nothen without a faint shaddcr o' sin." 
 
 "If so be Teddy and the lady had been kept apart for life, 
 they'd both ha' died," said Gad emphatically. 
 
 "It went proper well," said the fifth bell-ringer. 'They didn't 
 flee off to l»abylonish places — not they." He struck up an atti- 
 tude — "Here's Master Springrove standen so: here's the mar- 
 ried woman standen likewise: here they d' walk across to Knap- 
 water House: and there they d' bide in the chimley corner, 
 hard and fast." 
 
 "Yes, 'twas a pretty wedden, and well attended," added the 
 clerk. "Here was my lady herself — red as scarlet: here was 
 Master Springrove. lookcn as if he half-wished he'd never 
 a-come — ah, toads o' 'cm! — the men always do! The women 
 do stand it best — the maid was in her glory. Though she was 
 so shy, the glory shone plain through that shy skin. Ah, it did 
 so's." 
 
 "Ay," said Gad, "and there was Tim Tankins and his fiiu- 
 journeyman carpenters, standen tiptoe and pecpen in at the 
 chancel winders. There was Dairyman Dodman waiten in his 
 new spring-cart to sec 'em come out — whip in hand — that 'a 
 was. Then up comes two master tailors. Then there was 
 Christopher Runt wi' his pickax and shovel. There was wim- 
 menfolk and there was menfolk traypsen up and down cluirch- 
 'ard till they wore a path wi' traypsen so — letten the squallen 
 children slip down through their arms and nearly skinnen <>' 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 381 
 
 'em. And these were all over and above the gentry and Sun- 
 day-clothes folk inside. Well, I sid Mr. Graye dressed up quite 
 the dand. 'Well, Mr. Graye,' says I, from the top o' church'ard 
 wall, 'how's yerself?' ISIr. Graye never spoke — he'd dressed 
 away his hearen. Seize the man, I didn't want en to spak. 
 Teddy hears it, and turns round. 'Right, Gad!' says he, and 
 laughed like a boy. There's more in Teddy." 
 
 "Well," said Clerk Crickett, turning to the man in black, 
 "now you've been among us so long, and d' know us so well, 
 won't ye tell us what ye d' come here for, and what your trade 
 is?" 
 
 "I am no trade," said the thin man, smiling, "and I came to 
 see the wickedness of the land." 
 
 "I said thou wast one o' the devil's brood wi' thy black 
 clothes," replied a sturdy ringer, who had not spoken before. 
 
 "No," the truth is, said the thin man, retracting at this horrible 
 translation, "I came for a walk because it is a fine evening." 
 
 "Now let's be of¥, neighbors," the clerk interrupted. 
 
 The candle was inverted in the socket, and the whole party 
 stepped out into the churchyard. The moon was shining within 
 a day or two of full, and just overlooked the three or four vast 
 yews that stood on the southeast side of the church, and rose in 
 unvaried and flat darkness against the illuminated atmosphere 
 behind them. 
 
 "Good-night," the clerk said to his comrades when the door 
 was locked. "My nearest way is through the park." 
 
 "I suppose mine is, too?" said the stranger. "I am going to 
 the railway station." 
 
 "Of course — come on." 
 
 The two men went over a stile to the west, the remainder of 
 the party going into the road on the opposite side. 
 
 "And so the romance has ended well," the clerk's companion 
 remarked, as they brushed along through the grass. "But what 
 is the truth of the stor}^ about the property?" 
 
 "Now look here, neighbor," said Clerk Crickett. "If so be 
 you'll tell me what your line o' life is, and your purpose in 
 comen here to-day, I'll tell you the truth about the wedden 
 particulars." 
 
 "Very well — I will when you have done," said the other man. 
 
 " 'Tis a bargain ; and this is the right o' the story. When 
 Miss AldclylTe's will was opened it was found to have been 
 
 26 
 
382 DESPKRATE REMEDIES. 
 
 drawn up on the very day tliat Mansion (licr sly-gotten) mar- 
 ried Miss Cytherca Grave. And this is what that deep woman 
 did. Deep? She was as deep as the north star. She be- 
 queathed all her property, real and personal, to 'the wife of 
 Aeneas Manston' (with one exception): failen her life to her 
 husband: failen his life to the hairs of his head — body I wcjuld 
 say: failen them to her absolutely and her heirs forever: failen 
 these to Pa'son Raunham. and so on to the end of the world. 
 Now do you see the depth of her scheme? Why, although upon 
 the surface it appeareil her whole property was for Miss C; 
 therea, by the word 'wife' been used, and not Cytherea's nam 
 whoever was the wife o' Manston would come in for 't. Wasn't 
 that rale depth? It was done, of course, that her son Aeneas, 
 under any circumstances, should be master o' the property, 
 without folk knowen it was her son or suspecting anything, as 
 they would if it had been left to en straightway." 
 
 "A clever arrangement. And what was the exception?" 
 "The payment of a legacy to her relative, Pa'son Raunham." 
 "And Aliss Cytherea was now Mansion's widow and onl; 
 relative, and inherited all absolutely." 
 
 "True, she did. 'Well,' says she, 'I sha'n't have it' (she didn't 
 like the notion o' getten anything through Manston. naturally 
 enough, pretty dear). She waived her right in favor o' Mr. 
 Raunham. Now, if there's a man in the world that d' caii 
 nothen about land — I d<^n't say there is. but if there is — 'tis our 
 pa'son. He's like a snail. He's a-growcd so to the shape o' 
 that there rectory that 'a wouldn't think o' leavin' it even in 
 name. "Tis yours. Miss Grave.' says he. 'Xo. 'tis yours,' says 
 she. ' 'Tisn' mine,' says he. The crown had cast his eyes upon 
 the case, thinken o' forfeiture by felony — but 'twas no such 
 thing, and 'a gied it up too. Did you ever hear such a tale? — 
 three people, a man and a woman, and a crown — neither o' 'em 
 in a madhouse — flingen an estate backward and forward like an 
 apple or nut? Well, it ended in this way. Mr. Raunham took 
 it: young Springrovc was had as agent and steward, and put 
 to live in Knapwntcr House, close here at hand — just as if 'twas 
 his own. He d' do just wliat he d' like — Mr. Raunham never 
 interferen — and hither to-day he's brought his new wife Cy- 
 therea. And a settlement ha' been drawn up this ver>' dav. 
 whereby their children, heirs, and cetrer, be to inlicrit after Mr. 
 Raunhani's death. Good fortune came at Inst. Her brother. 
 
DESPERATE REMEDIES. 383 
 
 too, is doen well. He came in first man in some architectural 
 competition, and is about to move to London. Here's the 
 house, look. Stap out from these bushes, and you'll get a clear 
 sight o't." 
 
 They emerged from the shrubbery, breaking ofif toward the 
 lake, and down the south slope. When they arrived exactly 
 opposite the center of the mansion, they halted. 
 
 It was a magnificent picture of the English country-house. 
 The whole of the severe regular front, with its columns and 
 cornices, were built of a white smoothly faced freestone, which 
 appeared in the rays of the moon as pure as Pentelic marble. 
 The sole objects in the scene rivaling the fairness of the facade 
 were a dozen swans floating upon the lake. 
 
 At this moment the central door at the top of the steps was 
 opened, and two figiires advanced into the light. Two contrast- 
 ing figures were they — a young lithe woman in an airy fairy 
 dress — Cytherea Springrove; a young man in black stereotype 
 raiment — Edward, her husband. 
 
 They stood at the top of the steps together, looking at the 
 moon, the water, and the general loveliness of the prospect. 
 
 "That's the married man and wife — there, I've illustrated my 
 story by rale liven specimens," the clerk whispered. 
 
 "To be sure how close together they do stand! You couldn' 
 slip a penny-piece between 'em — that you couldn'! Beautiful 
 to see it, isn't it — beautiful! . . . But this is a private path, 
 and we won't let 'em see us, as all the ringers be goen there to a 
 supper and dance to-morrow night." 
 
 The speaker and his companion softly moved on, passed 
 through the wicket, and into the coach-road. Arrived at the 
 clerk's house at the farther boundary of the park, they paused 
 to part. 
 
 "Now for your half o' the bargain," said Clerk Crickett. 
 "What's your line o' life, and what d' ye come here for?" 
 
 "I'm the reporter to the 'Froominster Chronicle,' and I come 
 to pick up news. Good-night." 
 
 Meanwhile Edward and Cytherea, after lingering on the 
 steps for several minutes, slowly descended the slope to the lake. 
 The skifif was lying alongside. 
 
 "Oh, Edward," said Cytherea, "you must do something that 
 has just come into my head!" 
 
 25 
 
S84 DESPERATE REMEDIES. 
 
 "Well, dearest — I know." 
 
 "Yes — give me one-half minute's row on the lake here now, 
 just as you did on Creston Ray three years ago." 
 
 He handed her into tlie boat, and almost noiselessly pulled 
 off from shore. When tliey were half-way between the two 
 margins of the lake, he paused and looked at her. 
 
 "Ah, darling. I remember exactly how I kissed you that first 
 time," said Springrove. "Vou were there as you are now. I 
 unshipped the sculls in this way. Then I turned round and sat 
 beside you — in this way. Then I put my hand on the other side 
 of your little neck — " 
 
 "I think it was just on my cheek, in this way." 
 
 "Ah, so it was. Then you moved that soft red mouth round 
 to mine — " 
 
 "P>ut dearest — you pressed it round if you remember; and of 
 course I couldn't then help letting it come to your mouth with- 
 out being unkind to you, and I wouldn't be that." 
 
 "And then I put my cheek against that check, and turned my 
 two lips round upon those two lips, and kissed them — so." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Note.— Riders of Monarch Bicycles say 
 they are the very " Poetry of Motion" and 
 a never-ending delight. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
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